THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


X? 


ANTONIUS. 


ANTONIUS. 


A  DRAMATIC  POEM. 


J.   C.  HEYWOOD. 


NEW  YORK: 
PUBLISHED  BY  HUKD  AND  HOUGHTON, 

459  BKOOME  STREET.  * 
1867. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1866,  by 

J.  C.  HETWOOD, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District  of 
New  York. 


RIVERSIDE,  CAMBRIDGE: 

STEREOTi'PEI)  AMD   PRINTED   BT 

H.  0.  HOUGHTON  AND  COMPANY. 


THE  nation  of  all  the  Gauls  is  very  much  given  to  superstitious 
rites;  and  on  that  account  they  who  are  afflicted  with  grievous  dis 
eases,  and  they  who  are  engaged  in  battles  and  dangers,  either  im 
molate  human  beings  as  victims,  or  vow  that  they  will  immolate 
them,  and  they  employ  the  Druids  to  perform  these  sacrifices ;  for, 
unless  a  man's  life  be  given  for  the  life  of  a  man,  they  think  it  im-, 
possible  to  propitiate  the  mind  of  the  immortal  gods,  and  they  have 
sacrifices  of  that  kind  ordained  for  national  purposes 

This  system  is  thought  to  have  been  devised  in  Britain,  and 
thence  transferred  to  Gaul.  And  now  those  who  wish  to  know  it 
more  accurately  generally  go  thither  for  the  sake  of  learning  it. 

JULIUS  CAESAR. 


G23782 


ANTONIUS. 

The  Sea-Shore. 

ANTONIUS  AND  KALIPHILUS. 

\ 

ANTONIUS. 

Now  comes  Apollo  from  his  Eastern  couch, 
With  gleaming  armor,  quiver  freshly  filled. 
At  Night  retreating,  and  her  falling  hosts, 
Whose  countless  silver  helms  fast  disappear, 
He    flies   his   golden    shafts ;    more    swift   they 

sweep 
Than    from    ten    thousand    arms,   on    northern 

plains, 

Of  wild  barbarians  rushing  into  battle. 
The  rainy  Jupiter,  who,  in  yon  vale, 
A  love-appointment  had  with  certain  nymphs, 
Which  dwell  hard  by  beneath  the  arched  wave, 
Hath  tired  grown  and  overslept  himself. 
His  cloudy  form  now  rises  with  surprise, 
Pricked  from  repose  by  mischief-loving  bolts 
Of  his  co-dweller  in  ethereal  heights ; 
While,  up  the  mountain  sides,  the  misty  robes 


8  ANTONIUS. 

Of  the  affrighted  nymphs  are  vanishing,  — 
Fleeing  in  fear,  nor  heeding  where  they  go. 

KALIPHILCS. 

Which,  to  speak  plainly,  means  the  sun  is  rising, 
Clouds  moving  up  the  hills,  and  in  the  vales 
The  noiseless  lakes  of  fog  desert  their  beds. 


ANTONIUS. 


And  still  the  ocean,  as  a  wearied  god, 
Or  one  who  at  a  feast  hath  overstayed, 
Moves  restless  in  its  sleep,  and  often  sighs. 

KALtPHILXTS. 

It  hath  worked  hard  — 


Indeed,  it  worked  itself 
Into  a  most  destructive  passion,  leaped 
At  heaven's  throat,  and  on  its  haunches  stood 
Till    it   were   no   wonder   that   its   back   were 

broke 
With  writhing. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Bad  digestion  well  may  cause 
Its  restlessness.  Thou  say'st  its  maw  contains 
Your  entire  army,  engine,  armor,  ships  ? 


ANTONIUS.  9 

ANTONICS. 

Nay,  now  thou  ranklest  my  deep  wound  again. 
For  braver  souls  than  those  who  sailed  with  me 
Have  never  crossed  with  Charon  in  his  boat. 
Alas !  my  Sextus,  that  thou  shouldst  have  gone 
Before  me  !     I  had  thought  we  should  set  sail 
Together,  and  together  on  the  shore 
Of  Hades  landed.     O  ye  gods,  why  still 
So  hard  upon  me ! 

KALIPHILUS. 

I  beheld  the  storm 
From  yonder  hill.     The  waves  and  clouds  were 

mixed 

In  wrestling  conflict,  and  't  was  hard  to  say 
Which  mounted  o'er  the  other. 


Our  ships  were  hurled 

Against  the  skies  like  stones  from  catapults, 
And,  falling  back  into  the  engine's  mouth, 
Again  were  hurled,  and  so  until  their  points 
Breached  wide  the  bastioned  heavens,  and  let 

from  thence 
Long  streams  of  fire. 


KALIPHILUS. 


And  they  o'erwhelmed  your  fleet. 


10  ANTONIUS. 

ANTONIUS. 

Nay,  smote   the   insulting  waves,  and   they  in 

wrath 

Tore  us  in  pieces,  trode  us  under  foot. 
And  no  cloud  weeps,  no  sighing  wind  bemoans, 
No  darker  is  the  shining  world  because 
My  comrades  all  were  so  untimely  quenched. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Didst    thou    e'er    see    the    world    grow    dark 

because 

A  gleaming  phalanx  of  brave  fire-flies  fell 
Into  a  stagnant  pool,  and  there  were  quenched  ? 

ANTONIUS. 

Shame  on  thee  I  man  is  better  than  a  fly. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Look  from  the  heavens,  thou  shalt  distinguish 

neither. 

Be  grateful  that  thou  too  wert  not  consumed, 
As  men  are  grateful  oft  for  greatest  curses  ; 
And  thank  thy  gods  that  it  was  I,  and  not 
The  natives  here,  so  found  thee. 

AUTONIUS. 

Wherefore  ? 


ANTONIUS.  11 

KALIPHILUS. 

Fool! 
Thinkest    thou    they    would   respect    a   Roman 

'  garb 

Or  Roman  majesty,  though  great  as  thine  ? 
The  searching  winds,  the  slot-hounds  of  the  sun, 
Could  ne'er  have  scented  out  thy  scattered  parts 
Hadst  thou  been  rendered  by  the  gorged  wave 
To  these  barbarians  instead  of  me. 


AXTONIUS. 


Pray,  let  them  have  me. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Nay ;    with  me  thou  art  safe, 
And  mayest  repose  in  peace,  while  over  thee 
The  a3gis  of  my  power  I  shall  spread. 


AXTONIUS. 


A  stranger  here,  and  yet  a  ruler? 

KALIPHILUS. 

Yea, 

I  govern  as  may  he  who  will  but  make 
Prince  Superstition  his  prime  minister. 


AXTOXIUS. 


Art  thou  an  enemy  to  Rome  ?     If  not, 


12  ANTONIUS. 

Why  sufferest  thou  this  long  sustained  revolt, 
By  which  her  dear- won  sovereignty  is  mocked  ? 

KALIPHILUS. 

With  what  pertains  tp  nations  and  affairs 
Of  state  I  mix  not;   and  so  keep  my  power 
By  using  it  where  I  can  have  no  rival. 


If  it  were  not  too  great  offense,  I  'd  beg 
To  know  the  art  by  which  thou  hast  this  power. 
For,  plainly,  thou  art  of  remotest  race, 
And  hast  naught  common  with  this  people. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Yea, 

I  came  a  stranger ;  these  barbarians 
At  first  received  me  kindly,  used  me  well. 
But  soon  a  quarrel  grew,  for  I  protected 
A  captive  girl,  of  that  new  sect  the  Christians. 
And  when  they  found  they  could  not  take  my 

life, 

That  neither  fire  nor  water,  sword  nor  spell, 
Nor  poison,  nor  the  certain  siege  of  hunger 
Could  make  life's  citadel  capitulate, 
And  that  I  seemed  to  reverence  their  religion, 
They  took  me  for  a  god.     Now  am  I  called 
The  Great  Magician. 


ANTONIUS.  13 


ANTONIUS. 

Dost  thou  understand 
The  arts  of  divination  and  of  magic  ? 


KALIPHILUS. 

I  have  some  power  o'er  nature,  and  I  can 
Foretell  by  stars ;   make  them  to  me  unfold 
Their  hoarded  secrets  gathered  from  the  past. 


Let  me  recount,  I  pray  thee,  my  dark  story, 
And  ask  the  practice  of  thy  wondrous  art, 
That  I  may  be  resolved  from  all  my  doubts, 
And  wander,  no  more,  darkly. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Tell  thy  tale  ; 
But  see  thou  tell  it  all,  and  keep  naught  back. 

ANTONIUS. 

I  am  Antonius,  a  soldier,  one  — 

KALIPHILUS. 

Of  whom  the  world  hath  heard.    I  honor  thee, 
And  so  have  entertained  thee. 


I  am  one 


14  ANTONIUS. 

Who,  thirty  years  ago,  stood  On  the  mount 
Of  manhood's  youthful  prime,  and  smiling  saw 
Life  brightening  before  him,  as  the  morn, 
In    spring,   beholds    the    blooming,    brightening 

f      world, 

Conscious  of  will ;  assured  of  manly  power ; 
Elated  with  intoxicating  draughts 
From  full  existence's  overflowing  cup, 
Held  to  my  lips  by  all  the  crowding  hours ; 
Entranced   by   Hope's  embraces,  whose    bright 

train 

Of  promises  me,  each  in  turn,  caressed, 
And,  in  the  stolen  livery  of  Truth, 
Passed,  with  her,  to  my  heart,  unchallenged  ; 

lapped 

In  wealth  of  strong  affections,  squandered  not, 
The  halo  of  a  glorious  ancestry 
Encircled  me.     I  had  no  need  to  love, 
To  place  my  gems  of  happiness  at  stake 
Upon  a  woman's  gilded  pledge  of  love, 
Yet  did  I  it  and  lost,  for  she  was  false. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Or  poor,  mayhap :  not  all  the  world  are  rich 
In  love  and  truth ;   few  know  how  poor  they 
are. 


ANTONIUS.  15 

ANTONIUS. 

Then  was  she  false  to  falsely  promise  it, 
And  take  from  me  my  faith  and  treasures  all, 
For  she  robbed  me  of  faith  —  a  great  loss,  sir. 
Some  twenty  times  the  planets  all  have  made 
Their  annual  pilgrimage  unto  the  throne 
Which  orders  all  their  goings,  since  I  learned 
How  penniless  this  robbery  had  made  me, 
And  I  have  never  yet  been  rich  again. 

KALIPHILUS. 

But,  like  a  pillaged  miser,  hast  esteemed 
As  robbers  all  her  sex. 


With  naught  to  lose, 

Through  fear  of  pillage  have  been  miserable. 
While  she  was  mine,  or  I  believed  her  mine, 
I  was  more  proud  than  any  Eastern  king, 
And  could  not  feel  myself  how  great  I  was 
In  having  such  possessions.     She  so  fair, 
So  perfect  in  proportions,  mind,  and  form  ; 
A  wit  so  rich,  distilling  like  the  dew, 
Not,  like  the  hail-storm,  cutting,  —  't  was  to  me 
As  all  of  beauty  had  one  mouth,  that  mouth 
Were  mine  alone  to  kiss,  the  constant  source 
Of  sweet  intoxication  ;   but  two  arms, 
And  it  wrere  only  mine  to  rest  in  them ; 


16  ANTONIUS. 

One  bosom,  mine  alone,  mine  isles  of  bliss; 
One  soul,  where  only  I  could  bathe  mine  own. 
O  madness  !   that  I  should  have  lived  to  learn 
That  beauty  hath  a  hundred  thousand  mouths. 
Each  mouth  a  wilderness  of  kisses,  where 
The  most  adventurous  shall  pluck  the  most. 

KALIPHILUS. 

What!  can  so  little  learning  make  thee  mad? 
Thou,  from  the  thorny  scrub,  experience, 
With  lacerated  hands  hast  wisdom  gathered, 
But  countest  not  thy  gains.     Go  on,  go  on, 
Speak  all  the  truth,  and   say  thy  beauty  hath 
More  arms  than  old  Briareus,  and  more  strength 
To  clasp  a  thousand  loves;  more  secret  doors 
Unto  the  alabaster  temple  domes 
Upon  thine  isles  of  bliss,  than  starry  gates 
Which  lead  to  heaven,  on  your  Olympus. 

ANTONIUS. 

Ah! 
The  realm  of  ignorance  alone  is  heaven. 

KALlrHILUS. 

Once  had  I  such  a  love  for  woman,  yet 
'T  was  not  so  much  a  love  of  woman  as 
The  love  of  beauty  which  in  her  I  saw, 
Beholding  from  a  distance,  while  a  youth. 


ANTONIUS.  17 

ANTONIUS.  . 

Still  in  the  dreariness  before  me  one 
Great  hope  allured  me  on.     I  had  a  child, 
A   daughter,    upon    whom    my    thoughts   were 

fixed. 

By  day ;   by  night ;  upon  the  march  ;  at  rest ; 
In  battle's  fiercest  storm ;  in  my  lone  tent ; 
On  mountain  summits ;  in  the  deepest  valleys ; 
Lying  upon  the  singing  streamlet's  banks, 
Or  fording  torrents ;   in  sweet  summer  shade, 
Or  scaling  battlements  of  frozen  snow 
O'er  which  beleaguered  winds  fought  fiercely  ; 

on 

The  storm-tossed  trireme,  or  asleep  upon 
The  earth's  firm  bosom ;  still  I  thought  of  her. 
At  length  a  yearning  strong  to  see  my  child 
Had  overcome  the  fear  I  felt  to  meet 
Her  mother  —  ay,  I  was  afraid,  although 
Thy  smile  appears  to  say  thou  hast  a  doubt ; 
I  dared  not  meet  her  who  'd  so  wounded  me. 
And  yet,  I  think  I  so  did  love  my  child 
Because  it  was  her  child  —  I  cannot  tell. 
I  am  an  old  man  now,  and  somewhat  broken. 
But  I  so  loved  her  — 

KALEPHILUS. 

Her,  who  had  been  false  ! 


18  ANTONIUS. 

ANTONIUS. 

My  own  child's  mother  —  fifty  thousand  times 
As  false  had  not  destroyed  my  love,  nor  chilled 
My  tenderness.     O  I  so  pitied  her 
That  she  was  false  !    I  thought  I  hated  her, 
But  could  not  do  it,  no,  nor  yet  detest : 
'T  is  true  I  could  not. 

KALIPHILUS. 

She  had  drawn  thy  spirit, 
As  cats  the  breath  of  infants  when  asleep, 
While  lying  on  thy  breast. 

ANTONIUS. 

Perchance  it  was  so. 

The  burning  sun  of  middle  age  hath  chased 
The  mists  which  spread  a  dimness  o'er  youth's 

morn 

And  all  things  magnified ;  and  in  the  rays, 
Aslant  from  the  mid-west  of  life,  I  see, 
With  clearer  vision  looking  towards  its  east, 
The  founts,  and  rills,  and  torrent  beds  of  passion, 
Than  when  beneath  the  morning  rays  I  stood 
Where  they  were  springing.     Torrent  beds  are 

dry, 

The  rills  of  fancy  all  have  changed  their  course, 
The  founts  of  love,  perennial,  flow  on. 


ANTONIUS.  19 

KALIFHILUS. 

Her  child  was  to  thee  as  her  better  part  — 


Embodied  in  a  glorious  form,  as  gold 

In  shapes  of  beauty  wrought,  when  separate 

From  basest  ore  in  which  't  was  born. 


KALEPHILUS. 

This  child  — 


Wouldst  thou  its  horoscope  ? 


ANTONIUS. 

My  tale  is  long; 
I  fear  it  wearies  thee  ? 

KALJPHILCS. 

For  me  't  is  rest. 

ANTONIUS. 

I  weary  not  to  speak  of  them  ;   I  'm  old, 
And  talk  of  what  has  been,  not  what 's  to  be. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Ah !  I  would  learn  that ;  it  shall  be  my  trade. 


I  am  no  longer  here ;  I  do  not  stand 


20  ANTONIUS. 

A  shipwrecked  man  upon  a  desert  shore, 
But  in  a  garden,  where  the  sweetest  flowers 
Of  Italy  are  blooming ;   from  the  sea 
Soft  breezes  whisper  of  the  cooling  shades 
In  grottoes  fair  with  nymphs ;    or  where  they 

walk 

In  coral  groves  ;   the  sun  hath  bent  his  head 
Until  his  flushed  face  almost  rests  upon 
The  downy  pillows  which  the  ocean  holds 
In  her  broad  lap  for  him ;   I  am  within 
An  arbor ;  vines  enlace  it ;  roses  stand, 
And,  bending,  offer  nosegays ;  by  my  side 
A  beauteous  creation,  like  a  woman, 
But  so  much  fairer  than  all  women  are 
I  will  not  call  her  woman ;  on  my  breast 
Her  head  is  resting ;  round  her  form  my  arm ; 
Her  hair  hath  partly  fallen  down,  and  strives 
To  spread  itself,  a  shadow,  on  her  neck, 
And  nestle  in  her  bosom  ;  in  her  eyes 
I  look ;   we  do  not  speak ;   our  little  child, 
Upon  my  knee,  tries  to  form  words,  like  us 
In  vain,  to  express  its  meaning;  but  still  talks, 
Pulls  at  its  mother's  hair,  and  claps  its  hands, 
And  laughs.      The  more   than  goddess  by  my 

side  — 

She  was  my  wife  ;  that  garden  scene  the  last 
We  ever  played  together,  save  but  two, 
For  then  I  said  farewell  to  her,  and  went 
To  join  my  legions. 


ANTONIUS.  21 

KALIPHILUS. 

And  those  other  scenes? 


Alas !  speak  not  of  them ;  I  '11  go  no  more 
In  that  direction ;  it  is  hedged  with  horror. 
The  temper  of  my  mind,  with  heat  and  cold 
Of  a  much  varied  and  adventurous  life, 
Hath  been  so  softened  that  its  edge  is  lost. 
I  cannot  thrust  with  it;   it  bends  aside, 
As  sword  untempered  on  a  wooden  shield. 
I   turned   my   face   toward   Rome,  and  braced 

me  up, 

As  for  rough  weather  seamen  trim  their  ships. 
For  I  expected  presently  to  fall 
Into  a  cross-sea,  and  there  to  be  tossed 
By  tides,  from  every  quarter  of  my  heart, 
In  counter-currents  meeting. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Well,  thy  child  — 

ANTONIUS. 

Now  mark,  how  all  our  blooming  plans  grow 

pale 

And  vanish  in  the  breath  of  Destiny: 
Upon  whose  locks  the  stars  are  fixed  and  borne 
In  their  unswerving  courses  as  she  moves 


22  ANTONIUS. 

With  unrelenting  step ;  her  face  is  veiled 
By  the  impenetrable  blue  of  heaven ; 
Her  form  concealed  by  thick,  air-colored  clouds ; 
Her  sandals  are  of  darkness,  and  are  bound 
With  lightning  cords  ;  her  footfall  noiseless  as 
The  step  of  Night ;  great  Silence  goes  before. 
She  comes  from  that  vast  region  far  beyond 
The  eastern  verge  of  the  horizon's  bourne, 
Beyond  the  rising  sun,  where,  day  by  day, 
Night  after  night  is  born ;  where  ghostly  forms 
Of  unsubstantial  worlds,  like  shadows,  move, 
And  wait,  in  silent  patience,  to  be  real 
And  join  the  long  procession  of  the  planets. 
She  passes  through  the  waste  of  human  life, 
And  goes  beyond  the  setting  sun,  beyond 
The  sapphire  gates  which  open  in  the  west, 
Beyond  imagination's  utmost  goal, 
Or  farthest  stroke  of  the  far-reaching  thought, 
And  keeps  that  way  forever.     In  her  train, 
Chained  by  her  will,  and  in  their  courses  fixed 
As  are  the  stars,  the  gods  obedient  move, 
Without  volition  do  her  purposes, 
Yet  seem  omnipotent.     'T  was  her  decree 
That,  tarrying  at  Jerusalem  one  night, 
And  staying  from  a  feast  because  my  mood 
Was  sad,  and  better  I  loved  converse  with 
A  brave  and  faithful  friend,  I  should,  as  't  were, 
Let  my  child  pass  before  me,  and  not  know 


ANTONIUS.  23 

That  it  was  she  till  farther  she  had  gone 
Than  reach  of  vision,  voice,  or  outstretched  arms 
Of  swift  pursuing  Love,  and  so  I  lost  her. 

KALIPHILUS. 

How  lost  her? 

ANTONIUS. 

How  ?     In  that  I  found  her  not. 
Had  I  been  at  the  feast,  I  should  have  seen 
Her  and  her  mother,  —  my  despair  and  hope, 
My  bane  and  antidote,  my  ill  and  good, 
The  misery  and  happiness  of  life. 
Or  had  I  by  a  storm  been  less  enticed,  — 
A  proud,  imperious  beauty,  in  whose  train 
Walked  Darkness,  bearing  up  her  heavy  robes ; 
And  earthquakes  went  before  her  to  prepare 
A  highway  for  her  progress  ;  while  her  brow 
With  flaming  coronets  of  fire  flashed,  — 
An  amorous  storm,  whose  heavy  lids,  upraised 
But  for  one  moment,  with  the  lambent  light 
Of  swift,  deep-burning  passion  lit  the  heavens, 
The  dull  earth  melted,  dazzled  all  the  stars, 
So  that  they  shut   their    eyes.      With   mighty 

arms, 

The  north  and  west  winds,  she  encompassed  me, 
Played    with    my    hair,   and   kissed   away   my 

breath, 


24  ANTONIUS. 

And  plucked  the  growing  words  upon  my  lips, 

Ere  they  could  ripen,  though  a  tropic  heat 

Impelled  them ;   held  me  panting,  so  enwrapt 

With  joy  of  being  thus  caressed  by  beauty, 

That  I  forgot  all  sadness,  all  desires, 

All  wishes,  hopes,  and  great  determinations, 

And,  to  enjoy  the  sweet  delirium, 

Like  loving  Antony  in  Egypt's  arms, 

I  dallied  in  her  lap,  and  lost  my  world. 

That   beauteous   storm  was  but   a   deep-drawn 

sigh 

Of  Destiny,  who  's  ever  sad ;  that  sigh 
Detained  me  from  my  child,  and  so  I  lost  her. 

KALIPHILUS. 

How  lost  her? 


She  conveyed  herself  away, 
Or  she  was  hid.     In  vain  I  sought  her;   none 
Could  tell  her  dwelling-place. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Where  didst  thou  seek  ? 

ANTONIUS. 

From   where    the    glowing    Orient    pearls    are 
twined 


ANTONIDB.  25 

By  gentle  Night  on  golden  locks  of  Morn, 
While  he  still  sleeps  in  her  enamored  arms, 
To  where  the  evening-star  stands  sentinel 
With  amber  shield  and  zenith-reaching  sword, 
And  further  westward  will  not  let  me  pass. 
From  where  in  frozen  crystals,  underneath 
The  pole-star,  deep  imbedded  rainbows  lie; 
Where  in  the  voiceless  cold  of  winter  nights 
Pale,  airy  conflagrations  sweep  the  sky, 
The  ghosts  of  fires  which,  living,  fed  on  worlds, 
Or   flapped   their   flaring   wings    and   slow   de 
voured, 

As  vultures  on  the  chained  Prometheus  fed, 
The  bowels  of  some  groaning  mountain  bound 
Upon  the  Earth's  extremest  outward  verge, 
To  where,  with  feet  on  Afric's  either  shore, 
Old  Atlas,  sighing,  still  upholds  the  heavens. 

KALIPHILUS. 

And  found  her  not? 


ANTOXIUS. 


Ay,  found  her  not.     Ah  me ! 
From  Alps  to  Himalaya,  through  the  snows 
Of  Caucasus  to  Ind,  I  've  sought  my  child  ; 
From  where   the    waves    of   storm-engendering 

space 
Break  black  and  ceaselessly  in  awful  silence 


26  ANTONIUS. 

Upon  the  world's  remotest  promontory, 
To  where  in  busy  marts  man  jostles  man, 
And  many  tongues  meet  in  a  wordy  strife. 
And  now  I  think  she  's  dead. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Hast  thou  heard  naught  ? 

O 

ANTONIUS. 

One  who  was  dear  to  her  received  a  message, 
But  it -was  worn  and  indistinct,  and  seemed 
A  mockery.     In  my  dreams  I  've  been  told 
That  she  was  dead  and  waiting  now  for  me 
In  the  Elysian  Fields.     And  yet  I  feel 
A  strange  assurance  that  I  still  shall  see 
My  child,  shall  fold  her  in  my  arms,  shall  hear 
And  bless.     'T  is  not  belief,  nor  thought,  nor 

hope, 
But  a  small  voice  within. 

KALIPHILUS. 

'T  is  hard  to  undo 

The  grasp  which  clings  to  a  last  hope  on  earth ; 
And  when  that  hope  is  gone  its  memory  stays, 
A  kind  of  image  of  itself,  at  which 
We  're  clutching  ever. 


ANTONIUS.  27 


It  is  hard,  indeed. 

And  now,  I  pray  thee,  exercise  thy  skill, 
And  so  inform  me  if  my  daughter  live, 
And  if  I  yet  shall  see  her. 

KALIPHILUS. 

If  so  be 

The  spirits  which  keep  locked  the  fate  of  men 
Shall  be  propitious,  thou  shalt  be  resolved. 
But,    first,    impart    what    was    thy    daughter's 
name  ? 

ANTONIUS. 

Salome. 

KALIPHILUS. 

'T  is  the  same  ! 

ANTONIUS. 

What  say'st  thou  ? 

. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Naught ; 
I  spake  not.     Tell  me  what  her  age? 


Alas 


28  ANTONIUS. 

She  would  be  very  old,  if  all  her  years 
Were  each  a  dreary  century,  like  mine. 
Now,  let  me  see  :  if  she  be  living  still, 
She  should  have  reached  her  early  summer 

time, 

And  be  as  rich  in  beauty  as  is  June. 
Employ  the  powers  of  nature.     Answer  me. 

KALIPHILUS. 

'T  is  well.     I  '11  use  my  art,  and  presently 
Will  summon  my  familiar.     Rest  awhile, 
Until  I  call  thee  Sleep   thy  cares  beguile  ; 
Within  my  tent  a  couch  for  thee  is  spread, 
There  gentle  dreams  shall  soothe  thy  troubled 

head.  [Exit  Anlonius. 

Employ  the  powers  of  nature  !     So  I  will ; 
Lead  them  with  more  than  necromantic  skill,  — 
The  deep  affections,  weaknesses,  and  fears, 
Strong  man's  strong  passions,  woman's  stronger 

tears. 

The  tedious  fool !  —  Good  maxims  well  requite 
If  well  observed,  in  spite  of  Dullness's  spite; 
Hear  each  man's  story,  keep   thine  own  con 
cealed  ; 
So  better  profit  by  what  's  so  revealed. 


The  Mouth  of  a  Cave. 
ALPINDARGO  AND  SALOME. 

SALOME. 
THOU  seemest  troubled  bj  my  presence. 

ALPINDARGO. 

Nay, 

My  child,  thou  comest  to  me  as  the  ray 
Of  morning,  which  uplifteth  from  the  waves 
The  heavy  darkness. 

SALOME. 

Is  it  well  with  thee  ? 


ALPINDARGO. 


Well  as  life  may  be  to  an  aged  man 
Whose  vision  pierceth  dully  through  the  veil 
That  hides  the  future,  and  perceiveth  there 
Forms  indistinct  and  dread  of  coming  woes. 
And  art  thou  happy  ? 

SALOME. 

As  a  captive  may  be. 


30  ANTONIUS. 

ALPINDARGO. 

Thy  heart  is  pure  ;   according  to  thy  faith 

Thou  art  most  religious :  hast  thou  felt  no 
fear? 

Hath  no  foreboding  shadow  crossed  thy  vision  ? 

No  dream  perturbed  thy  sleep,  foretelling  sor 
row  ? 

No  revelation  of  what  is  to  be 

Made  all  thy  flesh  shrink,  and  thy  hair  upright 

Stand  shuddering? 


My  dreams  are  all  of  peace, 
And  rest,  and  happiness  to  come. 

ALPINDARGO. 

'T  is  strange ! 

And  thou  art  hopeful  ?     Naught  hath  troubled 
thee? 

SALOME. 

Why  askest  thou  ? 

ALPINDARGO. 

I  had  a  dream  last  night. 
As  in  my  youth  I  hunted  on  the  hills 
To  find  a  victim  for  the  sacrifice  ; 
A  white  doe  crossed  my  path,  I  drew  my  bow 
And  pierced  her  to  the  heart.     I  lifted  her, 


ANTONIUS.  31 


And  held  —  thee  in  my  arms  —  thee,  as  thou 

art, 
Thy  warm    blood   gushing    o'er    my   trembling 

hands ; 
And,  as  thine  eye  reproached  me,  I  awoke. 

SALOME. 

And  that  hath  made  thee  sad  ? 

ALPINDAHGO. 

For  it  bodes  ill 
To  thee. 

SALOME. 

No  ill  can  come  to  me  unless 
My  heavenly  Father  will ;   then  't  is  no  ill. 

ALPINDAKGO. 

A  brave  faith  hast  thou,  daughter.     After  that, 

As  I  sat  pondering,  a  vision  came  : 

A  part  thereof  was  bright,  a  part  most  dark. 


Chase  then  the  dark  away,  and  keep  the  bright : 
I  came  to  say  Good- day ;  if  thou  art  sad 
'T  will  make  of  good  day  night ;  I  '11  go  away. 
Nay,  nay,  thou  must  be  cheerful  if  I  stay. 


32  ANTONIUS. 

ALPINDARGO. 

Rest,  child,  with  me.     I  '11  tell  thee  what  I  saw. 
The  night  was  bending  from  the  east  to  place 
Upon  its  cradle  in  the  western  waves 
The  young  moon  wrapped  in  scarlet,  which  till 

then 

Upon  her  star-decked  bosom  she  had  borne ; 
And  lifting  up  herself  her  mantle  fell, 
Deep  darkness,  on  the  earth ;    the  forest  shud 
dered  ; 

From  the  far  valleys  voices  low  complained, 
Like  distant  streams  in  autumn  ;   in   their  beds 
Brooks  turned  themselves  and  moaned  ;   a  sob 
bing  blast 

Went  through  the  wood  and  hurried  on  alone. 
The  waves  stood  back  and  came  not  near  the 

shore, 
And  hushed  their  voices.      From  the  southern 

sea, 

Like  drifting  ship  on  fire  when  fogs  are  thick, 
A  misty  form  moved  slowly  and  approached. 
I  knew  my  father's  ghost :   his  eyes  were  like 
Two  moons   seen    dimly  through   dull   autumn 

clouds  ; 

His  head  was  bowed  upon  his  breast ;  his  hand 
Stretched  over  me  ;   his  voice  was  as  the  sound 
Of  wind  slow  moving  through  a  distant  pine. 
Fast  from  his  eyes  and  down  his  cloudy  beard 


ANTONIUS.  33 

Tears  fell  like  showers  about  a  mountain's  brow. 
Three   times    he    heaved   a   sigh ;    three  times 

essayed 

To  speak.     At  length  with  hollow  voice  he  said : 
I  seek  again  my  native  groves  to  say 
A  last  farewell.      He   paused.      The  trees   all 

sobbed. 

He  slowly  pointed  southward,  once  more  spake  : 
The  death-storm  rises  from  the  distant  waves ; 
It  comes  ;  its  skirts  are  red  with  blood ;  behold ! 
From  its  dark  bosom  gleaming  coals  of  fire 
Like  meteors  fall ;  it  passeth  o'er  the,  isle ; 
Descends  upon  it ;  lo  !  the  groves  are  burning  ! 
The  smoke  is  black;  upon  it  rise  the  ghosts 
Of  Alpindargo 's  children.     Come  away. 
He  said,  and  slowly  faded  from  my  sight, 
While  yet  I  gazed  on  him,  as  morning  mists 
Move  up  the  mountain  side. 


'T  was  passing  strange  ! 
How  dost  thou  understand  it? 


ALPINDAKGO. 

That  the  time 

Of  my  departure  's  near ;  and  this  is  bright : 
That  heavy  sorrows  threaten  all  I  love ; 

3 


34  ANTONIUS. 

This  very  dark.     Some  great  calamity 
O'erhangs  my  people ;  and  thou  too  must  suffer. 

SALOME. 

Perchance   it   was   a   dream ;    ghosts  come  not 
back. 

ALPINDARGO. 

Hush !    speak    not    so.      They  come    to   us   as 

dreams, 

To  say  what  shall  be,  or  to  make  us  know 
How,  on  some  distant  shore,  they  've  left  their 

bodies. 

.  SALOME. 

Believest  thou  that  dreams  are  visitants 
From    realms   of  knowledge    where    no    mortal 

dwells,  — 
Come  secretly  its  secrets  to  impart  ? 

ALPINDARGO. 

Sleep  is  half  death ;    the  ghost  half  leaves  the 

body  ; 

Half  riseth  to  its  cloudy  dwelling-place ; 
Half  looks  into  the  Halls  where  future  acts 
Are    formed ;    half   sees    them    half    prepared, 

half  hid, 

And  mixed  confusedly ;    and  then  reports 
Distinctly  indistinctness  when  we  wake  ; 
That  is,  when  the  half-absent  ghost  comes  back  : 


ANTONIUS.  35 

So  half  reveals  to  us  what  is  to  be, 

And  what  is  so  revealed  we  call  a  dream. 

SALOME. 

But  these  are  fancies,  father :  heed  them  not. 

ALPINDARGO. 

Respect  an  old  man's  faith.      Thou  hast  thine 

own; 
Leave  me  to  mine. 

SALOME 

Nay,  be  not  stern ;   I  meant  — 

ALPINDAEGO. 

There !    there  !    forgive  me.      I   would  not  be 

stern 

With  thee.     I  hear  the  moaning  autumn  wind. 
The  gale  is  rising  which  shall  lay  my  trunk 
Broken  and  branchless  on  a  dreary  shore. 

SALOME. 

Can  I  not  cheer  thee  ? 

ALPINDAEGO. 

If  thou  wouldst,  find  means 
This  day  to  place  thyself  beyond  the  reach 
Of  such  a  gale.    Why  should  thy  summer  leaves 


36  ANTONIUS. 

Be  strewn   like  sear  and  crisp  which  hang  on 

me? 
Thy  blooming  branches  crushed,  thy  striking 

roots 
Uptorn  like  mine,  which  loosen  now  their  grasp  ? 

SALOME. 

I  will  not  go  away  and  leave  thee  here, 
My  kind  protector  and  indulgent  friend. 
I  could  not,  if  I  would,  escape  ;  't  were  vain 
To  try. 

ALPINDAEGO. 

It  is,  alas !  too  true. 


'T  were  folly, 
For  we  should  court  the  dangers  which  we  fear. 

ALPINDARGO. 

And  I  am  powerless  against  the  gods. 

Let  's  hope.     Perchance  we  may  appease  them 

yet. 

I  shall  proclaim  a  solemn  convocation, 
And  there  we  shall  debate  the  means  to  avert 
The  impending  woe. 


Oh  seek,  with  me,  the  aid 
Of  Him  who  only  ruleth  in  the  heavens. 


ANTON1US.  37 

ALPINDARGO. 

Nay,  I  beseech  thee,  rouse  not  more  the  wrath 
Of  Britons'  gods  by  thine  impiety. 

SALOME. 

Forgive  me  —  let  me  plead  with  thee  — 

ALPINDARGO. 

What,  now! 

When  terrors  muster  on  the  horizon,  all 
The  winds  are  whispering  of  death  ? 

SALOME. 

Alas! 

Wilt  thou  not  learn  from  me  to  fear  that  death 
Which  dies  not  — 

ALPINDARGO. 

Eh !    Thou  'dst  teach  me  to  fear  death  ? 
And  make  a  coward  of  me  ?     Fie  !  no  more. 
Help  me  to  don  my  robe ;   and  now  —  what ! 

tears  ? 

Ah !  foolish  girl !     Another  time  I  '11  hear. 
To-morrow    thou    shalt    come    and    sing    thy 

hymns  — 

I  like  thy  hymns ;  and  when  thou  singest  them 
At  twilight,  and  the  silent  stars  come  forth 
And  stand  without  their  tents  to  listen,  then 


ANTONIUS. 


I  could  myself  almost  become  a  Christian; 
But  that  I  am  too  old.     Farewell ! 


SALOME. 

Farewell ! 

ALPINDARGO. 

What !   going  thus  ?     Come  back  and  kiss  the 

old  man  ; 

Forgive  him  ;    so,  if  we  should  meet  no  more, 
Know  that  my  choicest  blessings  go  with  thee. 


Oh  that  I  could  persuade  thee  — 

i 

ALPINDAKGO. 

Well,  thou  shalt, 
Perchance,  another  time.     Go  now. 


Farewell ! 


Before  Kaliphilus's  Tent. 
THEUDAS. 

THEUDAS. 

WHAT  will  my  master  ?  what  new  plot  ?  what 

craft  ? 
Who  shall  be  duped  ?    Now  must  I  run,  leap, 

fly  — 

Fly  like  a  tortoise  —  my  humped-back,  bent  legs 
Unequal ;    head,  without  a  neck,  set  fast 
Upon  my  breast,  —  I,  who  should  creep,  must 

run. 

A  fine  fat  toad  had  hobbled  from  his  den, 
And  at  its  mouth,  in  meditative  mood, 
Was  dreaming  of  the  goods  he  had  enjoyed. 
Ere  I  could  gulp  the  bloated  epicure, 
As    death    shall    snatch   his   man-like,  beastlier 

mates, 

This  tyrant  master  ordered  me  away, 
My    mouth    aflood    with    thoughts    of   coming 

sweets. 

With  serpents  I  would  bind  him,  fast  asleep, 
And   fill   his    mouth   with    poisonous    creeping 

things, 


40  ANTONIUS. 

So  that  he  might  not  smite  nor  curse  at  me, 
Nor  burn  me  howling,  blister  me  with  words, 
But  that  he  'd  find  a  free  way  to  revenge. 
I  '11  learn  that  way  from  him.     Now  must  I  go 
Prepare  for  use  the  devil's  apparatus, 
With  which  he  made  Caractacus  believe 
He  saw  the  ghosts  led  from  the  nether  world. 
Ha,  ha  I   it  was  well  done ;    the  images 
Were  truly  ghostlike  —  ghostlike  truly  lied; 
Appeared  and  vanished,  moved  disconsolate, 
And  sighed,  and  uttered  hollow  voices :    ah  ! 
Each    separate    hair    stood    up    to    look,    with 

wonder. 

My  knees  against  each  other  knocked  applause, 
So  that  my  master  said  I  was  afraid. 
Now,  though  I  think  my  master  is  a  devil, — 
Think  !    faugh  !    I  'm  sure  of  that,  —  yet  there 

are  things 

Which  he  knows  not,  and  one  of  them  is  fear ; 
So  thought  my  points  of  admiration  were 
The  characters  of  fear,  —  which,  if  I  know, 
I  'in  wiser  than  the  devil ;   yet  he  's  wise. 
He  hath  a  wit  is  pleasing,  and  the  tricks 
He  puts  upon  the  unsuspecting  world 
Would  make   the   burning  arch  fiend  laugh  to 

tears. 

He  goes  this  night ;    I  must  away  with  him, 
For,  if  I  stay,  these  savage  British  furies 


ANTONIUS.  41 

Incontinent  will  roast  me  :    so,  with  them, 

I  'm  sure  of  real  and  present  hell ;   from  the 

other 

I  may  perchance  escape.     Yet  were  all  true 
Which  Pagan,  Jew,  and  Christian  each  assert 
Of  Tartarus,  Gehenna,  Hades,  Hell, 
Of  birth  in  doom,  and  pre-decreed  damnation, 
My  master  devil  alone  could  lead  me  clear 
Of  stumbling  into  one  or  other  of  them. 
So  still  I  '11  wander  with  this  subtle  guide, 
And  thus  absent  myself  long  as  I  may 
From  that  hot  dwelling-place.     Besides,  ha,  ha ! 
A  feeling  prompts  me  still  to  follow  him 
Who  saved  my  life  when  those  accursed  soldiers, 
Because  my  tongue  was  sharp,  and  I  ill  shaped, 
Would  slay  me,  though  he  make  of  me  his  slave, 
And  for  such  purpose  saved  to  torture  me  — 

Enter  KALIPHILUS. 

KALIPHILUS. 
I  '11   make    her   wed   me  —  lingerest  thou  still 

here? 

Begone !    Obey  my  orders  ere  I  burn 
Thy.  marrow  with  hot  pains,  and  rack  thy  brain 
With  aches,  and  put  upon  thee  — 


Ah!  I  fly. 
Exit  THEUDAS. 


42  ANTONIUS. 

KALIPHILUS. 

I  '11  make  her  wed  me ;  then  her  duty  shall 
Teach  her  to  love  me  ;    though  to  me  't  were 

one 

Unwed  or  wed.     It  is  her  love  I  need, 
And  not  its  empty,  desecrated  forms, 
To  mock  me  and  repel.     Nor  would  I  take 
The  counterfeited  currency  of  love 
Though  duty  offered  it  on  bended  knee, 
To  pay  its  tribute  and  discharge  its  bonds. 
If  I  my  purpose  compass,  my  reward 
Shall  dear  oblivion  be  of  lengthy  labor. 

Enter  BERNICE. 

Ah !   sweet  Bernice,  haste  thee  to  Salome, 
And  with  fresh  arguments  assail  her  soul. 


Alas  !   she  will  not  yield. 

KALITHILUS. 

She  shall  —  she  must. 

Go,  let  thy  tongue  with  such  hot  potency 
Of  well  selected  phrases  overflow 
As  shall  not  fail  to  melt  her  scruples ;   go, 
And  let  thy  speech  be  tuned  to  pleading  tones, 
Thy  sense  addressed  by  earnest  action,  truth 
Seem  springing  from  thine  eyes  into  her  own ; 
Ay,  let  it  seem  so ;  spread  before  her  mind 


ANTONIUS.  43 

Such  pictures  as,  upon  her  ready  brain, 
Shall  make  a  double  impress,  what  they  are, 
And  what  they  apt  conceal.     Put  in  her  heart 
Hot  meanings  masked  in  words  of  aspect  cold, 
And  let  them  kindle  there  the  undergrowth 
Luxuriant  of  sense,  whose  growing  heat 
Shall  still  be  thought  but  purest  warmth  of  love. 


It  were  in  vain,  so  simply  pure  her  soul, 
From  which   the   weeds    that   blossom    impure 

thoughts 
Have    all    been   plucked,  or  never  there  have 

grown. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Then    plant    them,  dolt,  if  else   they  will  not 

grow,  — 

And  yet  the  devil  himself  should  almost  weep 
To  see  so  bright  a  creature  tarnished;  no. 
Speak  gently  to  her,  urgingly,  but  purely, 
Else  our  artillery  shall  back  be  thrown 
To  wound  ourselves. 

BEENICE. 

If  I  her  slow  consent 

Shall  bring  thee,  shall  I  surely  gather  then 
The  tempting  fruit  of  thy  rich  promises  ? 


44  ANTONIUS. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Ay,  surely,  as  I  've  promised  thee. 

BERNICE. 

Shall  I, 

Permitted  to  depart  alone,  go  search, 
Among  my  kindred,  what  I  ne'er  have  found 
With  thee  ? 

KALIPHILUS. 

And  that  is  ? 

BERKICE. 

Peace. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Nay,  thou  shalt  go 
Convoyed  in  safety. 


By  what  guard  ? 

KALIPHILUS. 

Myself. 

BERN1CE. 

And    think'st  thou   I  would   go  so  ?     O    thou 
devil ! 

KALIPHILUS. 

Ha,  ha! 


ANTONIUS.  45 


BEENICE. 

What !  wilt  thou  mock  me  ?  Ay,  thou  canst. 
I  have  no  covering  against  thy  thrusts, 
But  torn,  and  bruised,  and  sore  with  misery, 
The  finger,  lifted,  wounds  and  makes  me  shrink. 
But  thou  art  armed  in  proof — 

KALIPHILUS. 

With  honor  —  eh  ? 


With  curses,  monster.      Faugh !    I  could  not 

add 

One  drop  to  the  great  surging  sea  of  woe 
Which  wracks  thee  wallowing.     Oh  if  I  could 
I  'd  throw  it  in,  though  all  my  life-blood  went 
To  make  that  drop. 


KALIPHILUS. 


A  jewel  that  would  be 

Worth  sounding  many  seas  of  woe  for  —  eh  ? 
Pray,  throw  it  me. 

BEKNICE. 

Yet  have  I  pitied  thee 
Till  all  the  quick  pulsations  of  my  heart 
Were    sounds   of  dropping  tears ;    have  loved 
thee  so, — 


46  ANTONIUS. 

Ay,  loved  thee,  —  laugh,  now,  laugh  !     What ! 

seest  thou  not 

Somewhat  to  sneer  at  when  I  tell  thee  so? 
Have  loved  thee,  followed  thee,  left  all  for  thee, 
Made  thee  my  god,  and  sacrificed  to  thee 
All  those  dear  jewels  which  that  casket  holds 
We  call  a  woman  — 

KALIPHILtlS. 

So?     What  art  thou  now? 


A  thing,  a  useless  thing,  a  poisoned  thing, 
A  thing  decaying,  ah !  a  hopeless   thing. 

KALIPHILUS. 

But  find  a  way  to  win  for  me  Salome, 
And  none  shall  be  so  hopeful  as  thyself. 
Ah !  be  not  jealous,  since  thou  knowest  well 
She  could  not  love  one  hateful  as  myself. 

BERNICE. 

She  doth  not  know  thee ;  she  begins  to  waver, 
To  plan  how  she  may  win  thee  to  her  faith, 
And  to  repent  —  what  say  I  ? 

KALIPHILUS. 

Ah !  go  on  ! 


ANTONIUS.  47 

I  pray  thee  now  go  on ;    thy  words  begin 

To  sound  like  music,  though  thy  voice  be  sharp. 


BKRNICE. 

Oh,  she  shall  hate  thee  — 


KALIPHILUS. 

Now  a  discord  comes. 


Detest  — 

KALIPHILOS. 

Not  through  thine  offices. 


She  shall. 
Thou  canst  but  kill. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Why,  that  would  bless  thee.      No ; 
I  '11  make  thee  live ;  and  she  —  ay,   she  shall 
wed  me. 

BERNICE. 

Hast  thou  no  pity  ?     Is  that  fountain  dry  ? 
Dwells  naught  within  thee  but  consuming  fire 
Of  selfishness  ? 

KALIPHILUS. 

I  think  there  are  some  leaves 
Unwithered  yet  on  Memory's  rank  tree. 


48  ANTONIUS. 

BEENICE. 

Rememberest  thou  the  days  when  first  I  loved 
thee? 

KALIPHILUS. 

When  thou,  with  kisses  overladen,  as 

A  tree  with  luscious  fruit  inclined,  didst  bend 

Into  mine  arms  ? 


Accursed  be  the  hour. 
And  may  its  swift  successors  each  in  turn 
Bring  to  thy  soul  the  pangs  mine  now  endures ; 
Each  be  to  thee  as  my  whole  life  to  me. 
Did  not  I  say  to  thee  be  generous, 
And  tempt  me  not  to  my  undoing  ?     Oh, 
Be  generous,  and  ask  no  more  than  goes 
Locked  arm  in  arm  with  purity ;   such  love 
Will  bless  us.    Did  I  not  say  this  ?   And  thou, 
What  saidest  thou  ? 


KALIPHILUS. 

Love  consecrateth  all  things. 
That  I  would  not  from  Paradise  be  driven 
By  the  angel  in  thee  with  his  flaming  sword 
Of  purity.     I  said  it.     Well  ? 


Thou  didst, 
And  promised  me  to  love  me  always.     Oh ! 


ANTONIUS.  49 


KALIPHILUS. 

But  promise  given  by  duress  of  passion 
Is  never  binding. 


Would  the  fiends  could  teach 
Me  how  to  call  thee,  O  thou  sneering  demon ! 
Thy  promises  have  aye  been  fair,  alas ! 
Like  coverings  soft  spread  over  horrid  caves, 
Deep  into  which  those  resting  on  them  fall. 
An  angel  bright  asked  me  to  lie  upon 
A  bed  of  roses,  arguing  sweet  rest; 
And  I,  poor  dupe,  but  felt  it  part,  and  fell 
Into  the  mouth  of  dark  and  dreadful  Hades. 
Oh,  think   how   I  have  loved  thee ;   be  more 
t   gentle. 

KALIPHILUS. 

I  love  thee,  foolish  girl ;  am  gentle  still. 
If  I  may  win  Salome,  I  shall  be, 
As  I  have  shown  to  thee,  in  full  discourse, 
King  of  the  Jews  and  Christians,  and  o'erthrow 
The  Roman  power  in  Palestine. 

BERNICK. 

And  I? 

KAHPHILUS. 

Shalt  be  the  best  loved  mistress  of  my  heart, 


50  ANTONIUS. 

So  rule  my  crowned  queen.      Tbink'st  thou   I 

love 
Salome  ? 

BERNICE. 

Ay,  she  hath  so  sweet  a  wit, 
A  heart  so  rich,  a  beauty  so  excelling. 

KALIPHILUS. 

I  love  her  not,  and  but  for  cause  of  state 
Would    ne'er   have    wooed    her.      We,    whose 

hearts  are  filled 

With  love  of  country,  on  that  altar  burn 
All  selfishness  and  self-aggrandizement. 


Thou  really  lov'st  her  not,  and  I  shall  bp 
Loved  as  I  once  was,  if  she  wed  thee  ? 

KALIPHILUS. 

.      Yea. 
What  shall  I  swear  by  ? 

BERNICE. 

Swear  !     Oh,  do  not  swear ; 
Thine  oaths  have  all  been  broken ;  but  thy  word 
Unsworn  may  bear  the  burden  of  my  hopes. 
I  go,  and  what  I  can  I  will  for  thee. 

[Exit  BERNICE. 


K 

ANTONIUS.  51 

KALIPHILUS. 

Fool !   loving  dupe  !   again  to  trust  in  me. 
Oh  how  I  lie  !    Accursed  remembrance  hence ! 
Oh  could  I  practice  devil-breeding  sin, 
Each  vile  deed,  for  me,  live  but  at  its  birth, 
No  memory  to  set  on  me  Remorse, 
So  hunting  and  tormenting  me  forever! 
Let  me  in  hot  Gehenna  fast  be  chained, 
And  there  be  spitted  on  a  tongue  of  flame, 
And,  writhing,  hang  the  mark  for  thunderbolts, 
And  every  moment  shot  at  with  the  shafts 
From  their  red  quivers,  thrusting  every  fold 
Of  my  contortions,  till  into  the  abyss, 
Divided  in  a  thousand  parts,  I  fall, 
Each  separate  part  instinct  with  tenfold  life, 
And  rich  capacity  for  agony  ; 
I  'd  deem  myself  most  happy,  if  the  light 
Of  this  accusing  memory  in  the  dark 
Of  that  perdition  might  be  all  snuffed  out. 
Then  should  I  be  as  I  had  never  been, 
And  all  this  tide  of  horrors  from  the  past 
Cease  rollino-  on  me  —  Tut !    't  is  idle  !   what ! 

O 

Shall  I  cry  mercy  to  my  great  Tormentor? 
Time  presses,  and  my  plans  delay :   to  work ! 
What,  ho !    Antonius !  awake  !  come  forth. 

Enter  ANTONIUS  from  the  tent. 


52  ANTONIUS. 


Who  calls  ?  I  have  been  fast  asleep.    I  dreamed. 
Methought  I  held  Salome  in  mine  arms, 
That,  still  a  child,  she  smiled  and  prattled  at 

me. 

Then  was  she  woman  with  a  sad,  sweet  face, 
Which  rested  on  my  bosom,  and  my  beard 
Bedecked  with  tears  ;  then  was  she  suddenly 
Snatched  from  my  folding  arms  by  Hecate, 
As  was  Proserpine  by  Pluto  taken, 
And  vanished,  vainly  calling  on  my  name. 

KALIPH1LUS. 

'Twas  I  who  called.      I  would  commune  with 

thee. 
I  am  a  lone  man :   I  would  have  a  wife. 

ANTONIUS. 

Had  I  a  dozen  thou  shouldst  have  them  all. 

KALIPHILUS. 

If  I  should  find  thy  daughter,  promise  me 
That  she  shall  wed  me. 

ANTONIUS. 

She  shall  wed  with  thee? 


ANTONIUS.  53 

KALIPHILUS. 

Ay,  so  I  said. 

ANTONIUS. 

She  shall  not. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Then  farewell. 

ANTONIUS. 

Stay,  stay.     Who  art  thou? 

KALIPHILUS. 

I  ?  a  prince ;  thine  equal. 


A  man  's  my  equal.     I  would  know  if  thou 
Hast  manhood's  majesty,  its  crown  of  truth, 
Its  sceptre  honor,  throne  of  probity, 
A  pedigree  of  honesty,  a  robe 
Of  justice,  the  device  and  crest  of  one 
In  his  great  dignity  and  full  proportions, 
Whose  kingdom,  thoroughly  well  ruled  's  him 
self. 

My  race  is  noblest ;  from  the  greatest  gods 
My.  blood,  in  streams  ancestral,  to  my  heart 
Hath  flowed.     Yet  hold  I  him  in  all  my  equal 
In  whom  the  gods  have  placed  a  noble  soul. 


54  ANTONITTS. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Or  ever  the  first  stone  of  Troy  was  thought  on 
My  ancestors  were  kings  and  talked  with  God. 

ANTONIUS. 

But  what  art  thou  thyself?     Thou  askest  not 
My  daughter  for  thine  ancestors,  but  thee. 

KALIPHILUS. 

What  have  I  done  ?     Did  I  not  rescue  thee, 
A  stranger  ?     Have  I  entertained  thee  well  ? 

ANTONIUS. 

'T  is  true.     I  'm  not  unmindful,  nor  ungrateful. 

KALIPHILUS. 

I  seek  thy  daughter  for  her  good  and  thine. 

ANTONIUS. 

And  thine  ? 

KALIPHILUS. 

For  mine,  if  it  may  be. 

ANTONIUS. 

Alas! 

My   daughter   should    have    wed   with    Sextus ; 
that 


ANTONIUS.  55 

Is  passed ;  he  waiteth  in  the  flowery  groves 
Of  sweet  Elysium  for  her. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Give  her  me. 

ANTONIUS. 

Thou  lov'st  her  not.     Engraft  another  stock 
Upon  thy  heart,  one  thou  hast  known  and  loved. 

KALIPHILUS. 

To  keep  her  were  not  to  engraft ;  to  lose 
Were    to   break   off   a   branch,    which,    to    my 

heart, 

Bears  all  the  healthful  influence  of  the  skies. 
I  've  lived  to  know  when  branches,  torn  away, 
Leave  wounds,  comes  weakness,  blight,  and  rot ; 

to  know, 

Alas,  to  feel,  that  when  love  once  is  dead 
It  hath  no  resurrection  !     If  it  seem 
To  move  again  'tis  only  its  poor  ghost 
Appearing  in  the  misty,  dismal  night. 

ANTONIUS. 

Thou  canst  not  love  her  whom   thou  hast  not 
seen. 

KALIPHILUS. 

But  I  have  seen  her. 


56  ANTONIUS. 

ANTONIU8. 

Thou? 

KALIPHILUS. 

Yea,  long  ago, 
And  lately,  by  mine  art. 

ANTONIUS. 

She  lives? 

KALIPHILUS. 

Ay,  lives. 

ANTONIUS. 

She  lives?    She  lives! 

KALIPHILUS. 

Yea,  and  is  well. 

ANTONIUS. 

She  lives. 
I  thank  ye,  O  immortal  gods.     But  where  ? 

KALIPHILUS. 

When  wouldst  thou  see  her  ? 

ANTONIUS. 

Now.    Oh,  bring  me  to  her.          * 


ANTONIUS.  57 


She  's  mine  —  what,  know'st  thou  not  ?   she  is 
my  child. 

KALIPHILUS. 

If  thou  wilt  make  the  pledge  I  ask  of  thee  — 

ANTONIUS. 

Nay,  ask  not  that ;  but  all  my  wealth  — 

KALIPHLLU8. 

What  's  wealth  ? 

ANTONIUS. 

All  that  my  power  at  Rome  can  win  for  thee  ; 
Yea,  mine  own  self  to  be  thy  servant. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Thou ! 

ANTONICS. 

Ay,  all  I  have,  save  her. 

KALIPHILUS. 

But  I  want  her. 

ANTONIUS. 

At  least,  then,  let  me  see  her. 


58  ANTONIUS. 

Give  the  pledge. 


KALIPHILUS. 


ANTONIUS. 

Nay,  let  me  look  on  her  afar. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Thy  pledge. 

ANTONIUS. 

Gods !  but  this  passeth  patience. 

KALIPHILUS. 


ANTONIUS,  drawing. 

By  Hercules !    thou  shalt. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Ah !  thou  forgettest. 
Put  up  thy  sword,  it  cannot  hurt  me. 

ANTONIUS,  thrusting  at  Mm. 

So. 

[  Ttie  sword  is  turned  aside  as  by  an  invisible  shield,  and  falls 

from  his  hand. 

What  art  thou? 


ANTONIUS.  59 

KALIPHILUS. 

One  who  fain  would  be  thy  son. 

ANTONIUS. 

Oh,  pardon  me.     Thou  hast  not  been  a  father, 
Thou  hast  not  sought   through  life  to  find  thy 

child. 

I  am  an  old  man,  and  my  sun  is  setting  ; 
Along  the  shores  of  day  the  leaden  Styx 
Now  dully  glimmers ;  on  its  farther  side 
The  shore  of  night  lies  silent ;  beetling  crags 
Of  darkness  imminent  rise,  and  are  lost 
In  blacker  darkness  hanging  overhead. 
Before  I  cross  I  would  embrace  my  child, 
Would  hold  her  in  my  arms,  all  mine,  until 
The  kindly  boatman  Charon  comes  for  me. 
Oh,  bring  me  to  her ;   woo  her  if  thou  wilt, 
And  as  she  will  she  shall  decide  thy  suit. 
Let  me  look  on  her  face  —  she  is  my  child ; 
Oh,  let  me  feel  that  I  again  am  linked 
To  what  comes  after  me,  —  that  one  shall  keep 
My  images  among  her  household  gods, 
And  be  assured  that  I  no  more  am  childless. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Thou  shalt  not  see  her  till  thou  pledge  thine  aid 
To  make  her  wive  me.     She  shall  — 


60  ANTONIUS. 

ANTONIUS. 

Threaten  not. 

KALIPHILUS. 

So  be  it  as  thou  choosest ;  I  can  wait 
Thy  sluggish  promise  :   be  it  not  too  late. 


A  Wood. 
ULLIN  AND  OELA. 

ULLIN. 

SHE  's  pure  as  dew. 


ORLA. 

And  cold  as  snow. 


Nay,  melts 

As  easily  in  pity's  rays  as  that 
In  the  sun's.     She  's  beautiful  as  evening  fair, 
As  constant  as  the  day,  benign  as  night. 


Hast  thou  made  known  to  her  thy  love? 


I  have. 

ORLA. 

And  now  — 


62  ANTONIUS. 

ULLIN. 

My  soul,  once  married  to  a  hope, 
Is  widowed  ;    and  my  dreams,  like  mists  made 

golden 

By  the  new  risen  sun,  then  by  it  chased, 
Have  vanished. 

ORLA.« 

Let  them  go,  they  were  but  mists. 


Ay,  but  they  made  this  world  so  beautiful. 
Now  see  I  naught  before  me  but  a  waste, 
A  dreary  moor  with  wintry  clouds  and  winds. 

ORLA. 

Nay,  be  a  man,  detest  her  for  an  ingrate  — 


She  owes  me  naught ;  and  were  she  in  my  debt 
For  favors  numberless  as  love  would  lavish 
And  think  her  creditor,  accepting  them, 
Her  gratitude  should  not  lead  love  in  chains. 
And,  priceless  as  her  love,  were  it  so  brought, 
I  'd  set  it  free. 

ORLA. 

She  's  weakly  false  or  vain, 


f 

ANTONIUS.  63 

For  thou  art  very  fair  and  honorable  ; 
Thy  love  a  glory  for  the  proudest  head 
Which  e'er  in  morning  hues  arose  above 
The  gleaming  slopes  of  a  fair  woman's  shoulders. 


I  think  her  soul  hath  widowed  been  as  mine 
Is  now.     She  spoke  so  gently,  and  her  voice 
Was  like  the  mourning  south  wind  when  it  comes 
And  leads  with  either  hand  a  weeping  cloud. 
Upon  each  cheek,  and  weighing  down  each  lid, 
A  crowd  of  tears  protested  solemnly 
That  she  was  neither  weak,  nor  false,  nor  vain. 

ORLA. 

What !  was  she  moved  ? 

ULLIN. 

Ay,  as  a  placid  lake 

When  a  spring  torrent  takes  her  in  his  arms. 
Her  soft  hands  trembled  as  the  white  rose  when 
The  north  wind  seizes  it ;  her  bosom  moved 
As  lilies,  when  in  troubled  waves  a  storm 
Upheaves  the  peaceful  waters  where  they  rest. 


So  said  thee  nay? 


64  ANTONIUS. 

ULLIN. 

E'en  thus. 


OKLA. 

And  meant  it? 


Ay. 

ORLA. 

What  wouldst  thou  now  ? 

ULLIN. 

I  'd  save  her. 

OKLA. 

Save?   From  what? 


From  death.   No  Roman  captive  can  be  found 

To  be  a  victim  for  the  sacrifice, 

When  we  shall  hold  to-night  the  annual  feast 

And  celebrate  with  rites   the  Roman  wreck, 

Propitiate  the  gods  to  curse  our  foes 

And  seek  their  aid  against  the  world's  great  king. 

A  plot  to  slay  her  groweth  now  apace, 

To  immolate  her  for  the  sacrifice. 

The  wicked  Ranmor  shall   Kaliphilus 


ANTONIUS.  65 

Assail  with  force  persuasive  that  he  grant 
Salome  to  his  vengeance  and  bad  zeal. 


A  solemn  convocation  shall  be  held, 
Already  by  swift  messengers  proclaimed ; 
And  if  Kaliphilus  should  feebly  yield, 
The  druid  chief,  the  white-haired  Alpindargo, 
Shall  then  uproot  the  plot  and  save  his  pet. 
He  '11  not  consent. 


He  vainly  may  withstand, 
His  strength  and  policy  be  overthrown 
In  the  debate,  by  union  of  her  foes, 
The  druid  college,  jealous  of  her  faith. 

OKLA. 

Then  plannest  thou  in  vain  :  thou  canst  not  save 
her. 

T7LLIN. 

I  must. 

OELA. 

But  how? 


I'll  seek  Kaliphilus 
The  great  magician. 

5 


66  ANTONIUS. 

ORLA. 

Well. 


And  so  beseech 

That  he  cannot  deny  my  prayer,  but  shall 
Refuse  to  render  her,  or  point  the  way 
For  me  to  rescue  her. 

OKLA. 

How  can  he  do  it? 

ULLIN. 

By  his  deep  art. 

ORLA. 

And  will  he? 

ULLIN. 

Ay,  he  must. 

ORLA. 

Must,  must,  how  sayest  thou  must? 

ULLIN. 

I  love  her,  man, 
And  love  says  must :  love  is  omnipotent. 


Then  love  may  rescue  her. 


ANTONIUS.  67 

ULLIN. 

It  shall,  by  means. 
Wilt  come  with  me  ?     I  seek  him  now ;  he  '11 

help. 
He  hath  befriended  her. 

OBLA. 

See,  here  he  comes  ! 

Enter  K ALIFHILU.S. 


I  sought  thee. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Then  well  met.     Come  to  my  tent. 


Nay,  if  it  please  thee,  we  will   here  commune. 

Salome  is  in  danger ;  o'er  her  head 

The    death    cloud   pauses ;  mists  are   gathering 

now 

To  lift  her  ghost;  the  airy  halls  are  bright 
For  her  approach  ;  the  gods  are  leaning  forth 
Expecting  her  ;  and  spirits  — 

KALIPHILUS. 

Talk  plain  sense. 
Salome  is  in  danger  ?    What  ?     From  whom  ? 


68  ANTONIUS. 

ULLIN. 

She  shall  be  sacrificed  this  night  to   Hesus 
Unless  thou  save  her. 

KALIFHILUS. 

Ha !  he  loves  her ;  then 

She  him.     It  is  for  him  she  spurns  me.    So, 
A  dangerous  rival ;  loyal,  generous  — 

ULLIN. 

O   save  her ;  thou  canst  do  it ;   thy  power  is 

great. 
Thy  mighty  arts  can  find  a  rescue  for  her. 

KALIPHILUS. 

My  mighty  arts  shall  move  him  from  my  path, — 
Young,  and  so  brave, — he  's  fool  enough  to  do  it. 

TJLLIN. 

Dost  thou  not  hear  me  ? 


Look!   his  gaze  is  fixed 
Upon  the  distant  air ;  and  from  their  caves 
His  eyes  are  rushing ;  deep  convulsions  shake 
His  solid  frame :  stand  back !  disturb  him  not. 


I 

ANTONIUS.  69 


The  spell  is  on  him, — he  shall  see  the  way 
For  her  deliverance. 


ORLA. 

How  dread  must  be 

The  vision.     Stand  we  further  back;  the  gods 
Are  talking  with  him. 


Hist !  it  passes  !    Hist 

HLUS. 

Approach,  ye  bards,  approach. 


KALIPHILUS. 


ULLIN. 

What  hast  thou  seen  ? 

KALIPHILUS. 

I  may  not  tell  thee,  but  the  gods  have  spoken 
In  dreadful  form  and  words. 

ULLIN. 

What  is  their  will? 

KALIPHILUS. 

She  must  be  sacrificed ;  else  shall  the  Romans 


70  ANTONITJS. 

Return,  slay,  devastate,  and  living,  burn 
Bards,  druids,  all  upon  your  altar  pyres, 
A  sacrifice  unto  the  gods  of  Rome. 
The  gods  of  Briton  will  not  be  despised ; 
Gods  in  Jow's  misty  halls  shall  never  yield 
To  those  of  high  Olympus.     She  must  die. 

ULLIN. 

Is  there  no  way  to  save  her? 

KALIPHILUS. 

None,  but  one. 


And  that  — 

KALIPHILUS. 

Knowest  thou  if  she  be  loved  ? 

ULLIN. 

She  is. 

KALIPHILUS. 

By  one  who  loves  her  more  than  every  love  ? 

ULLIN. 

Yea,  truly. 


ANTONIUS.  71 

KALIPHILUS. 

More  than  lovers  ever  loved  her? 


I  '11  swear  it. 


KALIPHILUS. 

More  than  life? 

ULLIN. 

Than  life,  or  hope, 
Or  fame. 

KALIPHILUS. 

So  well  that,  for  her  sake,  he  'd  live 
For,  but  without  her  ? 

ULLIN. 

Ay. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Or  for  her  die  ? 

ULLIN. 

Yea,  fifty  deaths  to  save  her  from  one  pain. 
A  thousand  lovers,  each  bestowing  all, 
Could  not  make  up  the  sum  of  love  he  owns 
For  her. 


72  ANTONIUS. 

KALIPHILUS. 

What !  loveth  he  so  well  ?     Beware 
Thou  pledge  him  not  too  rashly  lest  he  fail. 
Could  he  be  found,  and  would  he  give  himself 
A  victim  to  propitiate  the  gods  — 

ULLIN. 

Could  he  so  save  her  ? 

KALIPHILU6. 

So  the  gods  declare. 

ULLIN. 

The  gods  be  thanked.     I  here  declare  myself 
The  victim. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Thou  ? 


I  love  her. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Then  Amen. 

ORLA. 

What !  art  thou  mad  ?     Thou  canst  not,  —  shalt 
not  do  it. 


ANTONIUS.  73 

No  priest  shall  serve  thee  for  so  fell  a  deed. 
Thy  father  Alpindargo  leads  the  rites. 


He  may  not  do  it.  When  he  shall  know  that  she 
Is  to  be  offered  he  '11  withdraw  himself, 
And,  prostrate,  weeping  in  his  cave  alone, 
Mourn  for  her.     By  the  storm  of  grief  his  age 
Be  shaken  ;    and  perchance,  his  feeble  limbs, 
Grief-spent,  refuse  to  bring  him  to  the  feast. 
Nay,  nay,  I  '11  find  a  way  to  overcome 
All  that  withstands,  and  safely  to  forestall 
The  slow  and  formal    priest.      Thou  'It  have  a 

care, 

Lest  in  a  moment's  fury  she  be  found 
And  slain  by  the  impatient  crowd,  that  she 
Be  placed  in  some  safe  covert,  where  no   rage 
Can  find  her.     Wilt  thou  promise  me  ? 

KALIPHILUS. 

I  will. 

ULLIN. 

The  great  gods  bless  thee.     Fare  thee  well. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Farewell. 
[Exeunt  ULLIN  and  OKLA. 


74  ANTONIUS. 

Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha !     Well  done,  Kaliphilus ! 
Well  acted  prophet !     Well  achieved,  O  knave  ! 
Yet  't  is  not  he  she  loves,  —  not  he,  poor  fool. 
He  loves  too  much  to  be  beloved  in  turn, 
Too  loyal,  frank  to  keep  a  woman's  love. 
He  doth  not  make  her  anxious,  torture  her, 
And  seem  forever  slipping  from  her  grasp : 
So  would  she  tighten  it,  and  all  her  strength, 
Thoughts,  tenderness,  desires  of  her  soul 
Devote  to  holding  him  still  fast  to  her  ; 
And  bind  about  him,  thus  to  hold  him  chained, 
The  ever-strengthening  tendrils  of  her  love  ; 
So  bind  herself  to  him  ever  more  firmly. 
But  she   may  love   him    when    she   hears   he 's 

dead, 

And  so  escaped  from  her  capricious  will, 
If  she  know  why  he  died.     She  must  not  know 

it. 

Or  better  't  were  he  die  not :  he  shall  live. 
She  loves  him  not ;    ay,  let  the  youth  then  live 
And  suffer.     Why  should  I  hold  to  his  lips 
Death's  chalice  sweet,  which  to  my  lips  in  vain 
I  lift,  but  cannot  drain  ?     Yea  he  shall  live. 
I  will  with  subtle  Ranmor  straight  confer. 
The  game  goes  on :    while  they  enjoy  the  pain 
Of  being  moved,  I  move  them  for  my  gain. 


Another  Part  of  the   Wood. 
SEXTUS  . 
SEXTUS. 

I  SHOULD  be  near  the  hill  which  from  the  shore 
I  saw,  or  this  is  an  enchanted  isle. 
Could  I  but  reach  its  summit  unobserved  — 
Or  have  I  lost   my  course  ?  —  from   there  I  'd 

spy 

The  sun's  track  and  the  secrets  of  this  land, 
And  with  impatient  vision  read  the  seas, 
And  learn  if  aught  but  me  escaped  the  wreck. 
I  saw  Antonius  with  his  ship  engulfed  ; 
But  yet,  perchance,  some  others  of  the  fleet 
Outfought  the  storm,  and  safely  won  a  haven. 
Still  prudence  guide,  and  caution  be  my  guard. 
Oh  for  a  hundred  trusty  men  well  armed,  — 
Ay  fifty,  twenty,  even  ten  of  mine,  — 
I  'd  skulk  no  more  about  this  gloomy  wood, 
Nor  longer  play  the  fox,  but  lionlike 
Spring  on  my  foes  at  once.     Ye  gods  !    it  irks 

me, 

And  frets  my  patience  that  I  here  must  lurk. 
'  T  were  strange  indeed  if  none  of  mine  like  me 
Outran  the  waves  and  safelv  came  ashore, 


76  ANTONIUS. 

Or  there  were  thrown.     If  I  alone  so  lived, 

As  I  shall  learn  if  1  can  reach  the  hill, 

I  '11  sell  my  life  as  dearly  as  I  can 

To  the  first  force  of  Britons  who'  dare  buy  it, 

And  join  my  friends  in  Hades. 

Enter  KALIPHILUS. 
KALIPHILUS. 

Eh!  a  Roman? 

SEXTUS. 

But  if  some  of  my  fellows  were  preserved, 
With  prudence  still  we  may  retrieve  our  loss 
And  overmount  disaster. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Ah,  a  chief! 

A  Roman  general !    now  he  is  mine  ! 
The   prowling   fiends   are   leagued   to    aid  me. 

Good! 
I  will  encounter  him. 

SEXTUS. 

As  well  be  hemmed 
By  midnight's  barriers  as  this  foliage. 


KALIPHILUS. 


Nay,  sir,  methinks  the  foliage  is  better. 


ANTONIUS.  77 

SEXTUS,  drawing  and  advancing  on  him. 

Ha! 

KALIPHILUS. 

Be  not  rash  ;  thou  art  choleric  —  or  timid, 
To  let  an  interruption  anger  thee. 
I  am  alone,  and,  as  thou  seest,  unarmed. 

SEXTUS. 

How  callest  thou  thyself? 

KALIPHILUS. 

A  traveler. 

SEXTUS. 

And  so  are  all  of  us.     What  is  thy  name  ? 

KALIPHILUS. 

One  that  I  would  forget,  and  none  should  learn. 

SEXTUS. 

Thou  art   skillful  at  thy  fence.     But  what   art 
thou? 

KALIPHILUS. 

Ask  -Him  who  made  me. 

SEXTUS. 

Pray,  what  was  his  trade  ? 

t 


78  ANTONIUS. 

KALIPHILUS. 

An  image-maker. 

SEXTUS. 

Say  a  poet,  rather. 
He  made  strange  images. 

KALIPHILUS. 

'T  is  true,  He  did, 

To  mar,  defile,  degrade,  and  then  to  burn. 
To  see  how  He  could  mix  up  God  and  devil 
To  make  a  thing  that 's  neither ;  they  are  men 
In  whom  the  mixture  's  equal ;    all  the  rest 
Are  creatures  which  should  be  without  a  name. 
When  both  are  equal  contest  shall  endure, 
And   strife 's   the   soul    of  man.     From   thence 

shoot  forth 

Great  manhood  crystallized  in  daring  act 
Or  glowing  thought,  an  offspring  that 's  immortal ; 
As  precious  things  are  to  the  surface  thrown 
Of  the  deep  working  earth  by  conflict  fierce 
Of  elements  within. 

SEXTOS. 

Hast  been  long  here  ? 

KALIPHILUS. 

Much  longer  than  I  would,  yet  not  so  long. 


ANTONIUS.  79 

SEXTUS. 

What  mak'st  thou  ? 

KALIPHILUS. 

Answer  questions,  sometimes  ask  them. 

SEXTUS. 

Thine  answers  are  but  foils ;  they  serve  to  parry, 
Thou  dost  not  with  them  pierce  the  understand 
ing. 

What  isle  is  this  ?    What  sea  ?    What  yonder 
land? 

KALIPHILUS. 

The  isle  of  Mona :  British  sea  and  land. 

SEXTUS. 

What  are  these  Britons? 

KALIPHILUS. 

They  're  a  servile  race, 
Although  they  boast  they  're  not ;  they  ape  their 

great  ones ; 

But  boasting  is  their  chief  accomplishment. 
A  people  strong  in  the  hips  and  good  to  fight 
With  any  people  weaker  than  themselves 
To  whom  they  're  full  of  most  offensive  pride. 
But  to  a  people,  who,  they  think  is  strong, 
They  're  very  courteous,  and  even  will 


80  ANTONIUS. 

Walk   backward,  so   that   thou   wouldst   almost 

swear 

They  had  some  culture  of  civility. 
They  seem  to  think  themselves  God's  constables 
For  all  the   world ;  that  there  can  be  no  fight 
But  they  are  in  to  break  a  head  or  two 
Upon  the  weaker  party.     But  they  wait 
Until  they  think  they  know  which  side  shall  win, 
And  then  they  help  it,  so  that  they  may  say 
They  've    kept    the    peace  of   the  world.     For 

them  the  world 

Is,  chiefly,  their  own  island  ;  all  the  rest 
Is  appanages  which  should  be  protected. 


I  marvel  that  thou  dwell'st  in  safety  here, 
For,  though  't  is  plain  thou  art  no  Roman,  yet 
Barbarians,  such  as  these,  should  think  thee  so. 

KALIPHILUS. 

One  who  cannot  be  harmed  is  always  safe. 
Now  tell  me  whence  art  thou  ? 

SEXTUS. 

Last  from  the  sea. 

KALIPHILUS. 

I  '11  call  thee  Triton. 


ANTONIUS.  81 

SEXTUS. 

Nay,  a  Roman  soldier, 
Whose  ship  was  broken  near  the  towering  cliffs 

1.  O 

Within  the  caverns  of  whose  arched  foundations 
The  waves  have  caged  the  thunders,  and  yet 

guard 
Them  roaring  there. 

KALIPHILUS. 

I  saw  thy  ship  astride 
A  rearing  billow  keeping  well  its  place, 
Like  skilful  rider,  for  one  moment ;  then 
I  saw  it  flung  into  the  dark  abyss 
And  trampled  on,  as,  by  a  wild  horse  thrown, 
I  've  seen  a  stripling  die. 

SEXTUS. 

An  hour  thence 
I  was  alone  upon  the  throbbing  shore. 


KALIPHILUS. 


No  one  could  say  which  of  them  loudest  shrieked, 
The  sea  or  sky. 


Yea,  they  did  split  their  throats 
With  bellowing  ;  and  through  the  mists  I  saw 
The  roaring  Neptune  with  his  helmet  on, 

6 


82  ANTONIUS. 

Which,    with    its    waving,  snow-white   plumage 

seemed 

A  mountain  top,  o'er  which  great  waters  break 
In  glittering  foam  ;  his  towering  helm  alone 
Above  the  surface  reared,  with  his  huge  arms 
He  pushed  the  howling  billows  from  beneath, 
And  smote  resounding  caverns  with  his  feet 
As  on  he  strode  and  shook  the    central   earth. 


KALIPHILUS. 


This  island  on  its  firm  foundation  quaked 
As  it  had  felt  a  blow  which  staggered  it. 


Perchance  he  put  his  trident  underneath 
With  purpose  to  uplift  and  cast  it  at 
The  heavens  also. 

KALIPHILUS. 

All  is  still  again. 

SEXTUS. 

But  better  I  like  tumult  of  such  battle 
Than  such  a  stillness  after  such  defeat. 
Then  was  there  hope  —  now  none. 

KALIPHILUS. 

What  is  thy  name  ? 


ANTONIUS.  83 

SEXTUS. 

One  I  am  not  ashamed  of — Sexjtus. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Ah! 

She  should  have  wed  with  Sextus,  said  her 
father. 

A  double  prize  !     Indeed  thou  sayest  well 

A  spotless  name  ;  thou  hast  made  fame  thy  hand 
maid  : 

Obsequious  she  wears  thy  colors. 


Hold  — 

KALIPHILUS. 

Rumor  precedes  and  valor  follows  thee. 
Forgive  me  that  I  may  have  been  too  bold, 
And  let  me  make  what  poor  amends  I  may. 
Rest  here,  while,  from  my  poor  abode  near  by, 
I  bring  thee  some  refreshment. 


That  were  kind. 

I  'd  gladly  break  my  fast,  somewhat  too  long 
Already. 

KALIPHILUS. 

In  a  place  of  safety  then 
I  will  bestow  thee,  for  the  isle  is  full 


84  ANTONIUS. 

Of  hostile  Britons  ;  while  my  couriers, 
Of  vision  keen,  swift  as  the  wing-heeled  god, 
In  ambient  course  shall  quickly  bring  me  word 
If  any  of  thy  comrades  have  survived, 
And  how  to  join  thee  to  them. 


Thanks,  kind  sir ; 

If  thou  do  this  thou  shalt  no  more  deny 
Thy  name.     I  '11  make  it  so  the  sun  at  noon 
As  easily  were  hidden. 

*  KALIPHILUS. 

Rest  you,  sir. 

[Exit  KALIPHILUS. 
SEXTUS. 

Now  if  he  should  betray  me — if  he  should  — 
Sometimes  there  's  safety  in  an  if.     I  '11  wait,  — 
The  more  that  Destiny  hath  left  no  choice 
For  Prudence  here.  —  A  curious  animal ! 
He  hath  a  traitor's  face,  spite  of  his  beauty  ; 
His  voice  repels  me,  though  so  sweetly  sad. 
His  eyes  are  those  of  an  old  man  ;  they  're  deep, 
Ay,  deep  enough  to  mirror  all  a  future. 
And  in  them  burns  no  fitful  flame  of  youth, 
But  unveiled  fire  of  full  experience, 
Which  shines  therein,  as  in  a  lake's  deep  centre 
The  troubled  image  of  the  mid-day  sun. 


ANTONIUS.  85 

Upon  their  shores  are  haunts  of  disappointments ; 
Of  sorrows  such  as  come  at  middle  life, 
And  signs  of  hopeless  grief,  which  only  live 
In  age's  wintry  season  ;  on  his  brow, 
In    darkening    shades,    are    gathering    evening 

clouds, 

But  still  his  head  bears  spring-like  foliage. 
No  frosts  have  fallen  on  his  growing  beard  ; 
In  his  complexion  all  the  bloom  of  youth 
Vies  with  the  overshadowing  hues  of  health  ; 
Yet  on  his  face  are  channels  made  alone 
By  evening's  deeply  flowing  tide  of  thought. 
And  o'er  his  mouth  an  image  dark  of  woe 
Enshrined  sits  and  never  leaves   its  place. 
While  sneers,  the  ghostly  semblances  of  smiles, 
Are  haunting  the  dark  portals  of  his  speech. 
What  may  he  be  ?     I  cannot  him  define. 
The  waves  of  passion  rolling  on  his  face 
Have  left  upon  that  shore  the  tracks  of  storms, 
Of  tides  o'ermounting  every  barrier. 
But,  so  he  bring  me  food  and  treat  me  well, 
I  '11  call  him  Jove's  own  son,  if  so  he  will. 


Before  a  Cave  hollowed  among  overhanging  Hocks  in 
the  Bank  of  a  deep   Glen. 


TORSA   AND   THREE  PlRATES. 


OUR  master  hath  no  plot  to-day ;  we  're  idle. 

FIRST  PIRATE. 

Fear  not,  we  shall  have  work  enough. 


SECOND   PIRATE. 

Ay,  ay, 
If  it  were  but  to  keep  us  from  our  ease. 

THIRD   PIRATE. 

He  never  rests. 

TORSA. 

If  we  should  plot  for  him  — 

THIRD   PIRATE. 

'T  would  cost  us  dear.     I  have  not  yet  forgot 
The  torments  he  put  on  us  when  we  tried 
To  circumvent  him. 


ANTONIUS.  87 


TORSA. 


I  'd  endure  again 


Tenfold  such  tortures,  could  we  get  possession 
Of  that  fair  captive  which  he  took  from  us. 


FIRST  PIRATE. 


Ere  we  could  profit  by  her  — 


Sure  he  thinks 

We  serve  him  here  and  bear  his  gibes  and  blows 
Because  we  fear  him;  but  we  bide  our  time. 
Eh? 

ALL    THREE.  • 

Yea,  we  bide  our  time. 


We  '11  catch  him  yet 
Asleep  ;  then  for  revenge  —  eh,  fellows  ? 

ALL  THREE. 

Ay, 

Revenge. 

TORSA. 

And   booty. 

ALL  THREE. 

Ay,  and  booty. 


88  ANTONIUS. 

TOBSA. 

And  — 
Is  that  all,  boys  ? 

ALL  THREE. 

And  love  —  his  sweet  Salome. 
Ha,  ha ! 

TORSA. 

Hush !  there  he  comes. 

SECOND   PIRATE. 

Where  ? 

TOBSA. 

On  the  bank. 
Enter  KALIPHILUS. 

KAHPIIILUS. 

Up  louts,  and  take  your  arms. 

ALL  FOUR. 

We  have  them. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Quick, 
Come  here.     Thou,  Torsa,  take  this  food ;  nay, 

leave 

Thine  arms  with  me  ;  the  rest  of  ye  go  armed. 
Upon  the  hill-side,  near  the  oak,  whose  boughs 
Are  wrinkles  on  the  aged  brow  of  heaven, 


ANTONIUS.  89 

Ye  '11  find  a  Roman  :  haste,  proceed  with  care, 
Take  him  alive ;    and,  that  ye  may  do  so, 
And  keep  your  own  lives,  come  upon  him  slyly. 
While  Torsa  brings,  unarmed,  this  food  to  him, 
And  entertains  him  with  kind  messages 
From  me,  the  rest  of  ye  shall  come  about, 
Unseen  by  him  ;    approach  him  from  behind, 
Spring  on   and    bind   him.     He   is   armed,  and 

brave  — 
See  that  ye    wound    him  not ;    and   bring    him 

thence 

Into  your  den,  and  keep  him  safely  there. 
If  he  escape,  or  if  ye  do  him  harm, 
Ye  know  how  I  can  punish. 


Fear  us  not. 


A  HiU-side. 
SALOME  AND  THONA. 

THONA. 

LET  's  sit  upon  the  moss,  the  royal  bed 
On  which  the  fairy  king  and  queen  repose. 

SALOME. 

Here  first  I  saw  thee. 

THONA. 

I  remember  well. 

Kaliphilus  had  brought  thee  to  my  father, 
Who,  as  chief  Druid,  could  decree  thy  fate* 


He,  by  Kaliphilus  persuaded,  brought 
Me  here  to  thee. 

THONA. 

To  be  my  dear  companion. 
But  little  thought  he  that  I  should  become 
A  Christian,  and  abjure  the  old  religion. 
I  have  not  dared  to  tell  him  what  I  am, 
For  he  would  cause  us  to  be  sacrificed 


ANTONIUS.  91 


Unto  his  gods,  —  he  's  so  obedient 

To  his  dark  faith,  and  stern  in    druid  zeal. 


His  zeal  is  honest,  but  is  led  astray  : 

So  honesty,  too  oft,  takes  the  wrong  way. 


Salome,  lovest  thou  Kaliphilus  ? 

SALOME. 

Why  askest  thou  ? 

THONA. 

To  make  thee  tell.     For  me, 
I  like  him  not.     I  never  am  at  ease 
When  he  is  near.     So  seems  to  shrink  my  soul 
And  tremble  in  his  presence,  as  I  've  seen 
Our  dove,  when   hawks    approach,  shake   in  its 
cote. 

SALOME. 

Thou  art  dove-like  timid,  mine  own  gentle  dove. 


I  've  heard   my  father  talk  of  this   strange  be 
ing, 

And  he  believes  him  to  be  more  than  man,  — 
If  not  a  god,  yet  of  immortal  race. 
Hast  thou  been  happy  with  me  here  ? 


92  ANTONIUS. 

SALOME. 

Thou  knowest. 

THONA. 

Nay,  frankly  speak. 

SALOME. 

At  first  I  was  not ;  but 

When  I  perceived  how  gentle  and  how  good 
Thou  art,  I  was  content ;  then  loved  thee  ;  then 
Would  not  part  from  thee. 


Thou  art  dear  to  me. 

But  would'st  thou  not  revisit  the  loved  place 
In  which  thine  infancy  was  passed? 


If  I 

With  thee  might  do  so ;    but  without  thee,  nay. 


In  yonder  beauteous  valley,  half  concealed 
By  that  low  mountain  lying  in  the  shade 
Of  bright-winged  clouds,  a  druid  hamlet  hides. 
There  was  I  born.     About  me  happy  brooks 
All  day  were  wandering,  chanting  all  the  night, 
And  virgin  vines  hung  on  the  sturdy  arms 
Of  youthful  trees,  and,  whispering,  swayed  with 
them 


ANTONIUS.  93 


A  gentle  dance  to  music  of  the  breeze. 

And  sweet  shrubs  in  the  bosom  of  the  brooks 

Placed  flowers  slyly ;    or  withdrew  themselves 

To  central  groves  their  beauties  to  unfold, 

And  on  a  veiled  altar  offer  up 

The  odorous  incense  from  their  censer  cups. 

'T  is  all  before  me  now  —  so  beautiful  ! 

Shall  heaven  be  like  this,  but   more  beautiful  ? 


The  Master  hath  not  told  us  what,  nor  where, 
How  founded,  of  what  builded  heaven  is. 
'Tis  where  the  glorious  majesty  of  God 
Pervades,  its  awful  beauty  may  be  seen, 
And  all  His  lovely  attributes  be  felt, 
And  all  His  great  perfections  by  us  known, 
Not  as  by  gods,  but  as  by  men  perfected. 
And  so  our  adoration,  which  belongs 
Alone  to  spirits  finite,  be  complete, — 
A  springing,  endless  joy. 


But  where  is  heaven  ? 
Is  it  above  the  sky? 

SALOME. 

For  me,  I  think 
That  heaven  is  in  us,  that  we  are  heaven 


94  ANTONIUS. 

Unto  ourselves,  when  we  are  so  perfected 
That  we  perceive  unclouded,  and  so  feel, 
In  perfect  ecstasy  and  strength,  all  beauty, 
Of  which  the  chiefest  is  of  Holiness 
The  beauty ;  whose  harmonious  perfections 
Throb  on  our  souls  as  breezes  on  a  harp. 
And  all  these  sinful  chords  so  out  of  tune, 
Which  jar  discordant  passions  in  us  now, 
Shall  then,  attuned,  yield  sweetest  harmony. 
It  hath  been  called  for  us  a  state  of  rest, 
Because  our  weakness  is  so  great  that  we 
Are  always  weary  ;    but  I  think  that  there 
We  shall  be  so  perfected  we  can  feel 
No  weariness,  or  need  no  rest,  and  thus 
The  rest  of  heaven  is  absence  of  fatigue. 
In  this  imperfect  state  our  joys  all  spring 
From  action,  just  as  music  only  comes 
From  chords  in  motion ;  yet  it  wearies  us. 
But   there,    breathed    on   by   beauty,    we    shall 

thrill 

Forever  with  harmonious  joys,  which  yet 
Grow  stronger,  richer,  more  harmonious, 
As  viols  played  on  grow  forever  sweeter. 
And  this  perfected  action  in  perfection, 
Forever  acting,  never  wearying, 
And  causing  joy  complete  in  ecstasy, 
Shall  but  express  our  still  increasing  love. 
Wilt  thou  not  sing  for  me? 


ANTONIUS.  95 

THONA. 

What  shall  I  sing? 


I  pray  thee  sing  the  hymn  which  last  I  taught 
thee. 

THONA  sinys. 

Weary,  with  sin  opprest, 
Not,  Lord,  complaining, 

Oh,  bring  me  to  the  rest 
For  Thine  remaining. 

Take,  take  me  by  the  hand, 

The  seas  roll  o'er  me, 
And  lead  me  to  the   land 

I  see  before  me. 

My  days  of  trial  told, 

My  sinning  ended, 
My  lambs  all  in  the  fold 

By  Thee  defended, 

Cleansed,  with  Thy  seal  imprest, 

By  love  constraining, 
Lift,  lift  me  to  Thy  breast, 

Thou   All-sustaining. 


96  ANTONIUS. 

SALOME. 

I  thank  thee,  —  sweet  the  prayer  on  music 
borne 

'T  is  like  burnt-offerings  which  mount  on  in 
cense. 

THCXNA. 

Salome,  wouldst  thou  truly  like  to  die  ? 

SALOME. 

To  die,  for  life  means  death,  and  death  means 

life,— 
That  endless  bliss. 

THONA. 

But  I  so  love  this  life. 
I  am  as  in  a  Paradise  like  Eden. 
The  sweetest  flowers  about  my  feet,  above 
To  reach  me  bending,  stooping  to  my  hand 
On  either  side,  and  playful  joining  arms 
Before  to  stop  my  way,  which  stretches  on 
Through  an  ascending  vale  whose  lateral  bounds 
Are  gentle  hills  reclining,  holding  groves 
Like  nosegays  in  their  bosoms ;  on  whose  brows 
The  laurel  and  the  palm  branch  wave ;  whose 

robes 

Are  verdant  velvets  wove  on  noiseless  looms 
In  shady  grottos  underneath  the  earth, 
By  Spring's  fair  virgin  daughters  ;  broidered  o'er 
With  violets,  forget-me-nots,  and  roses, 


ANTONIUS.  97 

From   dew-drops  wrought  by  Morning's  busy 

sprites. 

Midway  the  vale,  instead  of  flowers,  fruits 
Of  every  golden  hue,  purple  and  white 
And  roseate,  scarlet,  crimson,  fading  green, 
As  immature  comes  to  maturity, 
Invite  me  on  to  life's  delicious  feast : 
And  thence  the  valley  winds  through  thickening 

shade 

Of  forests  growing  tall  and  dense  and  dark, 
To  hills  that  tower  in  a  sunset  light, 
Like  ranges  of  midsummer  clouds  made  bright 
By  Evening  walking  on  them,  and  her  robes 
Long  trailing  far  adown  their  craggy  sides. 


Ah,  such  was  mine ;  O  joyful  youth,  alas  ! 


The  air  is  full  of  music  which  the  ear 
Can  hear  not,  but  the  soul  still  feels ;  and  light 
That  fills  the  heart  with  gladness,  all  made  up 
Of  evening  twilight,  moonlight,  light  of  dawn 
Together  blending,  as  in  music  blend 
Sweet  tones  accordant,  when  they  so  unite 
That  none  can  tell  whose  is  the  voice  that  soars 
In  highest  strains,  nor  whose  the  deepest  moves. 
The  streamlets  in  the  lakes  unite  as  souls 
7 


98  ANTONIUS. 

In  heaven;  which  is  reflected  from  them  all 
As  from  the  face  of  an  unbroken  mirror. 
And  all  who  dwell  here   love   me ;    all  I  meet 
Caress.     Such  seems  this  life  to  me. 


Alas! 

Such  unto  me  was  once  life's  vista;  now 
It  stretches  through  a  valley  dark  and  drear, 
Whose  flowers,  killed  in  their  fresh  bloom,  hang 

pale 

And  odorless ;  no  fruits  are  there  to  ripen. 
Its  bounds  are  fire-blackened  crags  ;  its  streams 
Cold,  flinty,  lava  motionless  ;  its  lakes 
The  Dead  Sea's  bitterness ;  its  only  groves 
The  silent  ghosts  of  trees  casting   no  shadow ; 
Its  softest  paths  the  broken  pointed  rocks, 
Which  wind  a  tortuous,  long,  and  drear  extent. 
But  where  it  terminates  a  cross  I  see, — 
A  hill,  like  Calvary  ;  beyond  the  cross 
A  gate,  like  crystal,  made  of  light  concrete, 
Which  shines  upon  my  way  —  so  bright  the  sun 
Would  pale  before  it,  and  so  soft  the  moon 
Shoots  in  comparison  bright  rays  of  steel. 
And  from  the  cross  I  hear  a  voice  say,  Come! 
Which  fills  my  soul  more  than  all  harmonies 
With  longing,  gladness,  joy  unspeakable. 
Thy  earthly  life  is  bright;  no  blight  on  thee 


ANTONIUS.  99 


Hath  fallen  ;  in  the  very  bud  my  life 
Was  blasted. 

THONA. 

Yet  thou  art  happy. 

SALOME. 

Yea,  I  am. 
He  so  hath  loved  me. 

THONA. 

Oh  that  I,  too,  were 
So  gentle,  lovely,  loving  as  thou  art! 

SALOME. 

I  '11  go  and  find  Bernice  :  she  's  unhappy. 

THONA. 

What  aileth  her? 

SALOME. 

Ah,  that  I  know  not.     Come. 


Nay,  go  alone ;  't  were  better  thus.    I  '11  stay. 

[Exit  SALOME. 

They  say  that  lovers  only  are  unhappy, 

And  that  it  is  their   greatest  happiness. 

But  when  I  love  —  ah  me  !  whom  shall  I  love  ? 

[Sings. 


100  ANTONIUS. 

There  was  a  gentle  maiden, 
As  fair  as  fair  could  be  ; 

This  fair  and  gentle  maiden 
Sat  by  the  sounding  sea. 

This  fair  and  gentle  maiden 
Cried,  Come,  love,  come  to  me; 

And,  from  the  sea  foam-laden, 
A  voice  replied,  —  To  ihee, 

To  ihee,  0  gentle  maiden, 
I  come  with  joy  and  glee  ; 

0  fair  and  gentle  maiden, 
Open  thine  arms  to  me. 

Then  from  the  waters  foaming, 
As  brave  as  brave  could  be, 

Aweary  with  his  roaming 

Through  trackless  wastes  of  sea, 

A  fair  sea-god,  appearing, 
As  gentle  mists  appear, 

Came  to  the  maiden  fearing 
A  lover,  when  so  near. 

He  put  his  arms  about  her, 
He  whispered  in  her  ear  — 

He  could  not  live  without  her, 
And  wept  a  briny  tear. 


ANTONIUS.  101 

His  voice  was  like  the  sighing 

Of  breezes  in  the  spring, 
When,  in  the  sunlight  dying, 

They  faint  upon  the  wing. 

He  pressed  the  maiden  to  him, 
He  felt  her  heart  beat  fast ; 

Its  beating  seemed  to  woo  him,  — 
Thou  art  mine,  thou  art  mine  at  last, 

He  said,  and  still  more  tightly 
The  gentle  maiden  pressed; 

She  sighed,  and  then  more  lightly 
The  heart  beat  in  her  breast. 

She  sighed,  and  then  she  shivered : 
More  tightly  her  he  pressed  ; 

Tears  on  her  eyelids  quivered, 
Still  her  the  god  caressed. 

The  cold  came  slowly  creeping 

Up,  up  into  her  heart ; 
She  cried,  with  bitter  weeping, 

0  lover  mine,  depart. 

Thine  arms  of  snow  enclose  me, 

All  icy  is  thy  breast, 
Thy  wintry  breath  hath  froze  me,  — 

Alas,  for  love  confest ! 


102  ANTONIUS. 

He  still  more  closely  to  him 
The  gentle  maiden  pressed ; 

Her  weeping  seemed  to  woo  him ; 
More  fondly  he  caressed. 

But  ah  !  O  gentle  maiden, 
Fixed  now  thine  eye  appears, 

Thine  eyelids  heavy  laden 
With  weight  of  frozen  tears  ; 

Ceased  has  thy  heart's  wild  beating ; 

Thy  heaving  bosom  rests ; 
And,  through  thy  lips,  not  meeting, 

Appear  thy  teeth's  white  crests. 

The  sea-god  takes  her  lightly, 
And  bears  her  to  the  sea; 

And  there  she  shineth  brightly, 
As  bright  as  bright  can  be. 

Yet  there  she  never  smileth, 
But,  cold  as  cold  can  be, 

No  warmth  her  heart  beguileth 
In  the  far,  northern  sea. 

For  there  she  now  is  roaming, 
The  sea-god  by  her  side, 

Through  trackless  waters  foaming 
His  frozen,  icy  bride. 


ANTONIUS.  103 


And,  when  the  tall  ships  see  her  — 
An  Iceberg !  loud  they  cry  ; 

And  none  attempt  to  free  her, 
But,  frightened,  pass  her  by. 

Now,  look,  each  gentle  maiden 

Who  sittest  by  the  sea, 
Some  god  with  kisses  laden 

Come  not  a-wooing  thee. 

Ah  me  !    Had  I  a  lover  he  should  not 
Freeze    me;      I  'd    melt    him    with    a    genial 

warmth, 

Nor  ever  wish  to  free  me  from  his  arms, 
Nor  ever  think  his  path  a  trackless  waste. 
Where'er  he  went  should  be  my  flowery  mead ; 
He  all  things  for  me:  I  should  nothing  need. 


A   Grove. 
BEKNICE. 
BERNICE. 
AH  !    she  shall  lie 

Where  I  have  lain, 
And  sigh  and  weep 

With  love's  sweet  pain, 

In  those  dear  arms 

So  gently  strong, 
Near  that  dear  heart, 

So  sad  and  wrong. 

Shall  feel  his  breath, 
Shall  have  his  kiss, 

Shall  have,  ah  me  ! 
All  my  lost  bliss. 

Too  hard  to  bear  ! 

Oh  I  would  die, 
Yield  love,  my  life, 

In  one  dear  sigh. 


ANTONIUS.  105 


And  yet  he  will  not  love  her;    will  love  me, 
If  I  can  win  her ;  but  his  shall  she  be. 
And  she  will  love  him  —  ay,  but  me  he  '11  love. 
She  be  the  cuckoo,  I  his  mated  dove. 
Then  must  I  win  her.     Jealousy,  be  still, 
And  let  love  be  as  foolish  as  love  will. 

Enter  SALOME. 


Bernice,  what !   my  friend,  in  tears  ? 


Alas! 


Unhappiness  hath  taken  the  citadel 
Of  thine  oppressed  heart,  and  spread  abroad 
Its  banners  o'er  the  fair  field  of  thy  face ; 
And  in    thine    eyes,    its   watch-towers,    hath   it 

placed 

A  glittering  garrison  of  ready  tears ; 
And  from  thy  parted  lips,  its  arched  portal, 
Sends  sounding  signs,  its  heralds,  to  proclaim 
Thee  subjugated.     Let  us  dispossess 
This  most  oppressive  tyrant ;    reinstate 
The  rightful  ruler,  Cheerfulness,  and  make 
Smiles,  its  bright  ensigns,  beam  from  every  part 
Of  this  fair  territory.     Nay,  look  up, 
And    weep    no    more.     What    aileth  thee,    my 

friend  ? 


106  ANTONIUS. 

BEBNICE. 

Alas !   I  cannot  tell  thee. 

SALOME. 

Sit  by  me, 
And  let  me  know  thy  grief. 

BERNICE. 

Would  that  I  could. 
My  heart  is  crushed  with  woe. 


Weep  silently 

Upon  my  breast,  and  feel  my  sympathy. 
Impart,  or  keep  thy  sorrow,  as  thou  wilt, 
But  tell  me  how  to  help  thee. 

BERNICE. 

Let  me  weep, 
And  feel  thine  arms  about  me  —  so  —  alas  ! 


Such  showers  fertilize  the  heart,  and  bring 
Its  richest  plants  to  blossom ;    so  the  soul 
Is  clad  in  verdure,  else  an  arid  waste. 


Salome,  canst  thou  love  Kaliphilus? 


ANTONIUS.  107 

SALOME. 

I  love  Kaliphilus  ?     How  mean'st  thou  love  ? 


Nay,  answer  me.     I  know  he  loveth  thee. 

SALOME. 

How  knowest  thou? 

BEKNICE. 

Since  last  he  came  from  thee 
I  know  naught  of  him,  save  his  outward  form. 
His  clouded  face  to  me  is  like  the  dull, 
Unchanging,  sunless  days,  which  solemnly 
Stand  round  dead  nature,  and  receive  the  winter 
Soft  coming  to  enshroud  and  bury  her. 
He  stands  or  wanders  idly;  seems  like  one 
In  whom  the  throne  of  Reason  is  usurped, 
And  all  its  fair  light-bearing  train  expelled 
By  shadow-leading  and  black-robed  Despair. 


What  wrought  this  in  him  ? 


What  but  love  for  thee 

Uncheered   by  hope !     He   rests    his   darkened 
brow, 


108  ANTONIUS. 

Which  grows  more  dark,  not  as  with  gathering 

storms, 

But  slow  descending  Night,  upon  his  hands ; 
Anon  he  utters  broken  parts  of  phrases, 
Which  seem  like  wrecks  of  thought  thrown  on 

the  shore 
Of  sense  by  the  subsiding  storm. 


What  words? 

BERNICE. 

Borne  by  his  sighs  I  gather  such  as  these : 
Lost !  lost !  «he  might   have  saved  me,  none  but 

she: 

To  live,  and  live,  and  live,  but  not  with  her 
Nor  for  her.     She  to  scorn  a  soul  condemned 
For  her  sweet  sake  !     Why,  such  a  love  as  mine 
Should    make    a    devil    worthy.      Long-drawn 

groans, 

Which  scarcely  can  be  heard,  so  deep  they  come, 
Attest  the  inward  fires  which  shake  his  frame. 
His  gaze  sees  neither  earth,  nor  sea,  nor  air. 
'Tis  turned  upon  that  blighted,  inward  world, 
Which,  back  reflected  from  his  heavy  eyes, 
Shows  its  dull  image  in  the  duller  orbs. 


That  is  not  love  ;  it  hath  not  that  complexion. 
It  is  a  fire  that  permeates  the  soul, 


ANTONIUS.  109 

Which  kindles  in  the  eye,  glows  on    the  cheek, 
Beams  on  the  brow,  as  on  the  eastern  sky 
The  rising  sun  ;  unbinds  the  fettered   currents, 
And,  spring-like,  sends  them    bounding   to  the 

heart, 
Which  thrills  with  their  commotion;  'tis  some 

sorrow 
That  overwhelms  his  soul ;  think  not  't  is  love. 

BERNICE. 

Oh,  tell  me  so  again  —  I  mean  not  that. 
Nay,  nay,  he  loves  thee  well :   know'st  thou  a 

grief  • 

More  terrible  than  that  whence  no  tears  come, 
Which  bends  the  heart  down  to  the  earth  before 
The  tomb  of  buried  friendship,  or  the  shrine 
Of  vanished  love  ? 


Nay.     Is  there  aught  more  woful? 


The  woe  of  love  itself  unfed  by  hope, 
Shut  from  the  heavenly  air  of  promises, 
And  lighted  by  no  star  of  sympathy,  — 
For  perfect  love  is  sympathy's  perfection. 
Such  love  is  woe  —  woe  that  undoes  itself 
But.  to  be  greater.     When  poor  love  is  starved, 


110  ANTONIUS. 

i 

And    shut    from   this  same  wholesome    air   of 
heaven, 

It  loses  health,  is  changed,  and  turns  to  mad 
ness. 

SALOME. 

All  love  is  gentle  madness,  is  it  not  ? 

BERNICE. 

Most  gentle  and  most  sweet,  when  happy,  like 
The  intoxication  which,  the  Grecians  say, 
Their  gods    enjoy.     Yet  't  is  not  madness ;  no, 
But  best  estate  of  health. 

SALOME. 

How  knowest  thou 
Its  qualities  ?     Hast  thou,  too,  loved  ? 


Alas!  — 

But  I  came  not  to  speak  to  thee  of  mine, 
Of  his  love  rather.     That  he  loves  thee  well 
I  think  thou  knowest ;  that  thou  hast  been  hard 
With  him,  his  constant  sighs  declare.    Why  so  ? 
Is  he  not  worthy  ?     Is  he  not  a  prince  ? 
Doth  not  his  tongue  make  music  ?  and  his  eyes — 
Are  they  not  loadstones  to  a  woman's  soul  ? 
Are  not  his  movements  full  of  softest  grace, 
So  that  they  seem  to  weave  a  magic  spell 
About  the  heart  ? 


I 

ANTONIUS.  Ill 


Of  what  avail  were  it? 
I  could  not  wed. 

BERNICE. 

What !  must  this  earth  so  rich 
Be  barren  ?     This  fair  wilderness,  so  fit 
A  garden,  all  become  a  withered  waste  ? 
Why,  look    thou,  shall    this    virgin    bust,  these 

limbs, 

Which  glow  with  fullest  blossoms  of  the  spring, 
Where  all  the  softest  forms  of  beauty  meet, 
Bear  their  warm  bloom  in  vain  ? 


Fie !  foolish  girl. 

BERNICE. 

Nay,  listen  to  me.     Wilt  thou  not  permit 
The  other  half  of  thy  perfected  being 
To  gather  these  rare  fruits  ? 


Hush,  hush  !  Bernice. 


I  say  thou  art  but  half  of  one  complete  ; 
Nor  I :  none  of  us  are. 


Yet  we  may  be 


112  ANTONIUS. 

Contented,  when  the  yearning  spirit  finds 
Communion,  that  is  happiness,  with  Heaven. 


But  that  compounded  nature,  half  of  soul, 
Half  sense,  which  spirit  and  material  part 
Holds  knit  as  true  love  holds  the  truly  wedded, 
So  that,  one  touched,  both  feel  —  one  hurt,  both 

weep; 

That  sea  of  deep  emotions  in  our  breasts, 
Wherein  the  heavens  are  brokenly  reflected, 
While  underneath  dark  Hades  lies  concealed 
Perchance  to  whelm  these  heavens  in  a  storm, 
By  its  upheaving ;  this  compounded  part 
Can  ne'er  be  satisfied  save  with  its  kind, 
Longs  for  communion  with  that  which  for  it 
Is  best  of  earth,  yet  worse  than  worst  in  heaven  ; 
Divine  in  form,  and  clothed  upon,  alas  ! 
Too  much,  by  that  idolater,  the  heart, 
With  the  divine  perfections ;  longs  to  feel 
Its  arms  encircle  of  itself  that  half 
So  strangely  lost  in  some  anterior  life,  — 


And  oft,  ah  me !  so  vainly  sought  in  this ! 
I  loved  :  my  love  is  lost ;  I  cannot  find  him. 

BERNICE. 

Then  take  another. 


ANTONIUS.  113 

SALOME. 

Nay,  I  could  not  do  it. 


Thy  love  is  dead  ? 


Alas !  I  fear  he  is. 

He  would  not  so  keep  silence  if  he  lived. 
So  many  years  I  Ve  waited  for  a  word 
Responsive  to  the  messages  I  sent. 
Such  pleadings  had  provoked  a  stone  to  tears 
Of  pardon.     Yet  he  comes  not,  sends  no  sign. 
But,  till  I  surely  know   him  dead,  I  '11  wed 
No  other. 

BERNICE. 

And  then  — 

SALOME. 

Ah,  then !  I  have  not  thought 
Of  that. 

BERNICE. 

But,  could'st  thou  love  Kaliphilus  ? 

SALOME. 

He  hath  been  very  kind. 

BEENICE. 

Then  thou  dost  love  him. 


114  ANTONIUS. 

SALOME. 

I  said  not  so. 

BERNICE. 

Thou  dost,  thou  dost.  O  me ! 

SALOME. 

What !  tears  again  !  —  more  tears  ! 

BERNICE. 

Alas,  alas! 

SALOME. 

How  have  I  grieved  thee  ? 

BERNICE. 

I  must  tell  thee  all, 
Or  break  my  heart. 

SALOME. 

Be  comforted. 


Ah,  me ! 

No  bosom  opens  its  embossed  gates 
To  give  my  sorrows  cheer ;  no  friendliness 
Comes  forth  to  meet,  and  bid  them  to  repose ; 
No  minstrelsy  of  gentle  words  expels 
Their  heaviness,  for  I  am  friendless  here. 


ANTONIUS.  115 

SALOME. 

Come  to  my  bosom ;  hear  my  gentle  words, 
And  rest,  for  I  would  be  thy  friend. 


Alas! 
Thou  know'st  me  not. 


I  know  thou  art  unhappy. 


Oh,  do  not  spurn  me  if  I  tell  thee  all, 
For  I  must  tell  thee,  and  so  find  relief, 
And  be  as  honest  as  I  now  can  be. 
Thy  kindness  melts  my  armor  of  deceit 
And  shows  me  to  thee  naked,  as  I  am. 
I  love  Kaliphilus. 

SALOME. 

I  know  thou  dost, 
As  should  a  sister. 

BERNICE. 

I  am  not  his  sister. 

SALOME. 

Art  not  his  sister  ? 

BERNICE. 

Oh !   I  'm  not,  I  'm  not. 


116  ANTONIUS. 

SALOME. 

But  art  thou  then  his  daughter? 

BERNICE. 

No  —  oh  no. 

SALOME. 

Nor  niece,  nor  cousin  ?   Wife  thou  canst  not  be. 

BEBNICE. 

Alas !     I  'm  neither. 

SALOME. 

But  what  art  thou  then? 

BERNICE. 

0  spare  me.      Something  which  thou  canst  not 

name. 

SALOME. 

My  poor,  poor  child. 

BEENICE. 

And  thou  abhorr'st  me  not? 

SALOME. 

1  pity  thee. 

BERNICE. 

The  God  in  heaven  bless  thee  — 
So  wretched  am  I. 


I 

ANTONIUS.  117 


Yea,  I  know,  I  know. 

But    if  thou   lov'st  why    would'st   thou   that  I 
wed  him  ? 

BERNICE. 

To  purchase  thus  again  what  I  have  lost. 
He  promised  me  that,  were  he  wed  to  thee, 
He  would  not  love  thee,  —  would  love  only  me. 
And  so  I  've  urged  thee,  as  I  'd  plead  for  life, 
No,  not  to  love  him,  but  to  be  his  wife. 
Then  can  I  bear  it  better.     Love  him  not ; 
Who  love  are  aye  unhappy ;   take  the  lot 
Of  wives  unloving. 


So  hath  promised  thee 
And  thou  would'st  trust  him  still  ? 


'Tis  my  soul's  habit: 

I  have  so  loved,  and  trusted  him,  and  lived 
But  in  a  world  of  which  he  was  the  god, 
As  if  transformed  or  new  created  by  him, 
I  wait  the  re-arising  of  his  love 
As  for  the  sun  in  storms,  or  day  in  night. 
His  promises  have  been  my  breath  of  life, 
And  faith  in  him  was,  as  it  were,  my  soul. 
To  be  with  him  was  the  eternity 


118  ANTONIUS. 

Of  joy  for  which  I  looked,  expected,  prayed, 

The  object  and  fruition  of  my  life. 

And  all  his  sorrows  but  increased  my  love. 

SALOME. 

And  he  had  wooed  thee  ? 


Wooed  me  as  the  Sun 
Woos  the    warm   Earth  in   spring,   and  draws 

from  her 
Confessions  loath,  sweet  flowers  half  unfolding. 


And  having  won   he   loved  thee  —  loves   thee 
still? 

BERNICE. 

He  loves  me  not;  and  I  must  see  thee  take 
The  place  with  honor  which  I  held  with  shame. 
But  were  I  pure  again,  like  thee,  I  'd  bear 
The  pangs  of  unrequited  love,  the  thorns 
Of  lacerating  jealousy,  and  think 
Them  heavenly  joys ;  for  now  I  suffer  tortures 
Of  shame,  remorse,  and  hopelessness,  like  those 
Of  hell. 

SALOME. 

Despair  not;   thou  may'st  find  relief. 


ANTONIUS.  119 

BERNICE. 

Nay,  I  can  never  be  but  what  I  am, 
And  being  what  I  am   must  suffer  still 
These  tortures. 

SALOME. 

Yea,  thou  canst  again  be  blessed, 
When  thy  strength  faileth  thee,  in  One  whose 

strength 

Sufficeth.     He  is  ever  nigh  to  help. 
Come  in  with  me. 

BERNICE. 

Thou  wilt  not  love  him  then? 


Before  a  Hut  in  a  scathed  Grove  of  Pines. 
THONA. 

THONA. 

MY  father  said  that  I  might  find  him  here  ; 
I  wish  he  would  not  see  the  man.     All  fear 
This  place  ;   and  't  is  no  wonder,  for  the  trees, 
All  blasted,  stand  like  watchful  ghosts  about 
The  spot.     They  say  that  yonder  hut  conceals 
A  cavern ;    and  through  that  a  darksome  way 
Leads    to    the  nether    world ;    from    which   are 

heard 

Dull  sounds  of  voices,  indistinct  and  awful ; 
And  phantoms  come  and  go  with  direful  aspect ; 
That  dreadful  forms  of  living  flames  spring  forth 
To  fasten  on  the  mortal  who  may  dare 
Invade  that  secret  place,  and  drag  him  thence, 
Through   horrid   ranks   of  thronging,  clutching 

fiends, 

To  Hades.     Here  Kaliphilus  retires 
To  hold  communion  with  familiar  spirits, 
And  learn  the  secrets  hid  from  mortal  ken. 
I  tremble,  and  could  not  come  near  the  place, 
Had  not  my  father  given  me  this  charm, 


I 

ANTONIUS.  12 I 

By  him  received  from  the  dread  master  here, 
To  make  approach  unto  this  spot  secure. 
How  shall  I  find  him  if  he  be  within  ? 
I  dare  not  enter.     I  will  call  him  forth. 
Kaliphilus!     What,    ho!    Kaliphilus ! 

ANTONIUS,  mthin. 

Who  calls? 

THONA. 

'T  is  not  his  voice ! 

ANTONIUS,  mthin. 

If  thou  art  human 
And  on  the  earth  would'st  breathe  the  heavenly 

air, 
Come  hither.      Help  me. 

THONA. 

Ah!   what  shall  I  do? 
The  door  is  fastened  on  the  outer  side  ; 
Kaliphilus  cannot  then  be  within: 
If  that  should  be  a  voice  to  tempt  me  there 
For  my  destruction. 

ANTONIUS,  within. 

Come.     Wilt  thou  not  come  ? 

THONA. 

If  it  should  be  some  mortal  in  distress  — 


122  ANTONIUS. 

ANTONIUS,  within. 

I  pray  thee  help  me. 

THONA. 

With  this  charm  I'm  safe. 

Undoes  the  fastening  of  the  door;  Antonius  discovered  lying 
bound  upon  the  floor. 

ANTONIUS. 

I  thank  thee,  gentle  —  But  art  thou  a  spirit  ? 


I  'm  only  a  weak  girl.     And  what  art  thou  ? 

ANTONIUS. 

An  old  man,  as  thou  seest.     Pray  unbind  me. 


THONA. 

So.     Canst  thou  stand? 


ANTONIUS. 

Eh?     Yea. 

THONA. 

And  walk? 


So,  —  so. 

THONA. 


Come  forth  into  the  air. 


ANTONIUS.  123 

ANTONIUS. 

Most  willingly. 

[  They  come  forth. 

THONA. 

Thou  art  a  Roman  ! 


I  deny  it  not. 

THONA. 

Then  wert  thou  safer  in  thy  prison  there. 

ANTONIUS. 

I  seek  not  safety,  but  an  open  field, 
And  men,  not  spectres,  for  antagonists. 

THONA. 

What  hast  thou  seen  ? 


I  know  not  —  demons,  ghosts, 
And  all  the  horrors  necromancy  leads. 
The  strangest  dream  —  I  know  not  if  I  wake. 
Am  I  awake  ?     And  art  thou  real  ? 


Ay,  truly. 


124  ANTONIUS. 

ANTONIUS. 

Come,  pinch  me    then.      Why,    yes,    I    think 

thou  art  real. 

Thy  little  fingers  sting  —  so  fair  a  hand  — 
Sting    me    again ;    I  Ve   been    worse    stung  by 

kisses. 

If  I  am  not  awake,  my  dream,  now  fair, 
Makes  me  content  to  sleep. 


How  cam'st  thou  here? 


ANTONIUS. 


A  man,  a  great  magician,  as  I  think  — 

THONA. 

Kaliphilus  ? 

ANTONIUS. 

'T  was  so  I  heai'd  him  called. 
He   found   me    shipwrecked,    senseless    on    the 

shore ; 
Restored  my  strength  with  simples  ;  brought  me 

home, 

And  treated  me  with  kindest  courtesy  ; 
Protection  offered  me,  and  gave  me  food, 
And  entertained  me  with  most  wise  discourse  ; 
Till  from  my  story  and  his  art  he  learned 
That  I  a  daughter  had  ;    that  she  still  lives. 


ANTONIUS.  125 

Then,  with  incontinent  persistence,  he 
Demanded  her  of  me,  which  I  refused. 
Then  passed  a  cloud  upon  his  visage  dark, 
Which  darker  grew  ;    his  muttered  words  fore 
told 

A  storm.     And  so  he  left  me  ;    soon  returned  ; 
We  were  before  his  tent  when  last  I  saw  him. 
There,  fixing  his  deep  eyes  on  mine,  he  moved 
His  hands  in  gentle  motion  toward  me,  till 
Unconsciousness  possessed  my  every  power, 
And  all  since  that  is  to  me  as  a  dream. 
And   when    my    senses,    from   their   bonds    es 
caped, 

'Gan  take  their  watchful  stations,  and  ere  yet 
I  could  persuade  myself  I  did  not  dream, 
I  heard  thy  voice. 

THONA. 

But  he  did  not  disarm  thee ; 
Thou  hast  thy  sword. 

ANTONIUS. 

A  good  and  trusty  friend. 


Thine  armor  and  thy  buckler  thou  may'st  need. 

ANTONIUS. 

They  should  be  near  ;   I  left  them  in  the  sun. 
So  gentle,  yet  so  brave  —  who  art  thou,  girl? 


126  ANTONIUS. 

THONA. 

My  name  is  Thona. 

ANTONIUS. 

'T  is  a  pretty  name 
Accordant  with  thyself.     Thou  art  native  here  ? 

THONA. 

Ay,  to  this  clime. 


Thy  mother  was  a  lily. 
A  rose-tree  surely  was  thy  father. 


Nay, 
My  father  is  the  druid  chief. 


Tis  well,— 

A  happy  father.     I  would,  have  repose. 
These  limbs  sustain  a  heavy  weight  of  years, 
And  after  such  a  dream  I  'd  dreamless  rest. 


Come  then  with  me  unto  a  place  of  safety. 
I  have  a  friend  will  tender  thee  as  well 
As  thine  own  daughter ;   she  is  good  to  all. 


ANTONIU8.  127 

Oh,  thou  shalt  love  her.     She  is  happiest 
When,  by  the  magic  of  her  tenderness, 
She  drives  possessing  powers  of  grief,  and  woe, 
And  weariness  from  sad,  possessed  hearts, 
And  places  there  contentment. 

ANTONIUS. 

Who  is  she  ? 

THONA. 

A  Roman  captive. 


Bring  me  to  her,  then, 
And  have  a  sad  and  weary  old  man's  thanks. 


Although  a  captive,  she  can  care  for  thee 
And  make  thee  glad  again.     She  will  be  glad 
That    I  have    brought   thee ;   there    thou   shalt 

have  rest. 
Salome  knoweth  how  — 

ANTONICS. 

Salome  I 

THONA. 

Yea, 
Such  is  her  name.     Didst  thou  know  her? 


128  ANTONIUS. 

ANTONIUS. 

Salome ! 

So  was  my  daughter  called.      1  pray  thee  tell  — 
Know'st    thou    aught    of    her  —  whence    she 
came  ? 

THONA. 

'T  was  she 

Who  asked  John  Baptist's  head, —  thou  'st  heard 
the  tale  ? 

ANTONIUS. 

No,  no  —  it  cannot  be.     It  cannot  be. 


Wilt  thou  not  lean  on  me  ?   Thou  art  faint  again. 
Thy  strength  o'ertaxed  — 

ANTONIUS. 

What  was  her  mother's  name? 

THONA. 

Herodias,  the  Queen  — 

ANTONIUS. 

Ye  gods !      Ye  gods  I 
Tis  she. 

THONA. 

What  aileth  thee  ?   Alack !   he  's  dead ! 


ANTONIUS.  129 

What  have  I  done  ?     O  me  !   what  shall  I  do  ? 
No  one  to  help  me,  all  alone  with  him. 

ANTONIUS. 

Nay,  let  me  sleep. 

THONA. 

He  speaks  !    't  is  well  !    't  is  well  I 

ANTONIUS. 

They  told  me  that  Salome  lived  again: 
They  did  but  mock  me  — 

THONA. 

Come,  arouse  thee.     Come. 

ANTONIUS. 

The  little  stars  danced  in  the  East, 

And  the  little  stars  danced  in  the  West, 

When  the  Moon  invited  them  all  to  a  feast, 
But    of  all   the    bright  dancers   my  love  was 
the  best. 

THONA. 

Who  art  thou? 

ANTONIUS. 

I  ?  —  I  '11  tell  thee  not.  Away  ! 
Did'st  thou  not  say  that  thy  name  is  Salome  ? 
A  sweet  name  and  a  dear.  But  she  undid 

9 


130  ANTONIUS. 

The  gates  of  evening,  and  went  hence  to  light 
The  world  beyond.     There   shall   we  find  her. 
Come. 

THONA. 

Nay,  she  is  here.     And  we  will  go  to  her. 


I  heard  her  calling  to  me  in  my  dreams. 
Her  voice  was  like  the  music  of  the  voices 
Of  many  girls,  when  heard  across  the  meadows. 
I  am  Antonius,   her  father. 

THONA. 

Thou ! 

ANTONIUS. 

I  was  her  father,  when  I  had  a  child: 
Thou  art  not   she  —  thou  art  like  her,  but  not 
she. 

THONA. 

Art  thou  Antonius?     Art  thou  her  father? 

ANTONIUS. 

I  am  Antonius.     I  was  her  father. 


Oh  joyful  news  !      But  how  to  let  her  know, 
So  that  too  sudden  joys,  like  heavenly  fires 


ANTONIUS.  131 

Too   swift   shot   from    the   sky,   blast  not  that 

life 
Which  they  should  gently  warm  into  perfection. 


The  owl  said  boo,  and  winked  at  the  bat  —  ho, 
ho! 

He  did  't  to  fright  me :  in  the  dark  we  're  cow 
ards. 

He  knows  it.  Ah,  how  long  and  dark  this 
night ! 

THONA. 

Salome  shall  but  place  her  hands  on  thee 
And  make  thee  well  again. 

ANTONIUS. 

So  ?     Let  us  go. 
But  tell  me,  is  Herodias  still  there? 

THONA. 

Nay,  she  is  dead. 

ANTONIUS. 

Why  not  ?     Dead  !     All  are  dead. 


Salome  lives.     Shall  we  not  go  to  her? 


132  ANTONIUS. 

* 

ANTONIUS. 

Ah  !  I  bethink  me  now.     My  mind  's  unsteady, 
And  changing  breezes  turn  it   from  its  course. 
I  am  a  ship  hath  sailed  on  many  seas, 
And    been    by    wrathful   storms   so   beat    and 

wrecked, 

So  battered  by  cross-seas,  so  scathed  by  light 
nings, 

That,  ballast  lost,  and  rudder  out  of  joint, 
Each  sudden  gust  can  throw  me  helpless  back, 
Or  drive  me  devious  without  pilotage. 
My  mind  is  old  and  worn,  and  easy  crazed. 


Come,  place  thy  hand  upon  my  shoulder  —  so. 
Dost  thou  feel  stronger? 


Strong  enough.     Let's  go. 


A   Garden  before  Alpindargo's  House. 

KALIPHILUS. 

KALIPHILUS. 

BRAVE  Sextus  caged ;  Antonius  secure, 
So  that,  by  chance,  he  shall  not  see  Salome ; 
His  superstitious  soul  racked  by  my  goblins 
Till  he  shall  have  no  strength  to  say  me  nay. 
The  subtle  Ranmor  favoring  my  plot, 
For  his  revenge,  but  half  conceiving  it, 
To  be  outwitted  in  the  prosperous  end, 
And  left  to  howl  with  rage.     She  shall  be  mine. 

Enter  Salome. 

I  thank  thee  for  this  meeting,  gentle  friend. 
When  thou  art  hence  a  mocking  troop  of  fears 
Spring  from  my  heart,  like   shadows   from  the 

earth 
When  light  is   gone,  and   haunt   my  shivering 

soul; 

Which,  terror  stricken,  waiteth  for  the  dawn 
Of  thy  bright  coming  through  the  dreary  night, 
Whose  only  light,  thy  cherished,  kindly  words, 
Shining  like  stars  in  the  dark  firmament 
Of  memory,  guides  hope  from  death.     My  days 


134  ANTONIUS. 

Are  marked  by  thine  appearing  and  departure, 
And  all  my  world  is  by  thy  movements  bounded, 
As  rising  and  down-going  of  the  sun 
Mark  the  out-circle  of  the  sky's   broad  base. 
Thoughts  spring,  when  thou  art  away,  as  flowers 

in  night, 

Full  of  love  fragrance  and  the    dew  of  love. 
And    sighs,  like   shades  heart-broken,  then  be 
moan, 

And  words  fast  gather,  like  the  birds  at  dawn, 
Awaiting  thine,  as  they  the  sun's  approach, 
To  pour  before  thee  gushing  vows  of  love. 


Why,  thou  hast  told  me  this  — 

KALIPHILUS. 

A  thousand  times. 


And  all  thy  varying  phrase  — 

KALIPHILUS. 

But  says  I  love  thee. 

SALOME. 

I  would  it  were  not  so. 


ANTONIUS.  135 

KAL1PHILUS. 

Oh,  I  so  need 
Thy  love  I    needs    must    plead  for  it ;    though 

thou 
Should'st    threaten    thy   displeasure,    though   I 

knew 

That  I  should  cause  thee  torture,  I  must  plead. 
The  tendrils  of  my  heart  have  taken  hold 
Of  thee ;  they  twine  and  cling  on  every  branch 
And  flower  of  thy  soul.    Where  shall  they  fasten 
If  thou  should'st  throw  them  off?    Where  turn? 

How  rise  ? 
Canst  thou    so    push    them  from    thee  and  not 

break  them? 

Would'st  thou  with  violence  undo  their  grasp, 
And  my  affections,  which,  with  thee,  aspire,/ — 
Cast  from  thee,  and,  as  vines  without  support, 
Make  them  to  grovel  ?  When  the  storms  of 

passion 
Sweep   over    them    how    shall    they    be    o'er- 

whelmed, 
Crushed,  and  polluted ! 

SALOME. 

Is  a  man  so  weak  ? 


KALIPHILUS. 


It  is  not  weakness  ;  it  is  strength, — such  strength 


13(3  ANTONIUS. 

As  will  not  be  resisted  ;    such  as  piles 
Ossa  on  Pelion  and  climbs  to  heaven. 


A  pine  were  weak  which  so  should  lean  upon 
A  weeping  willow,  or  an  aspen-tree. 

KALIPHILUS. 

But  vines  from  soil  too  rich  and  powerful 
Which  climb,  and  clasp,  and  bend  the  tallest  tops 
Of  most  disdainful  trees,  and  cover  them, 
And  make  them  but  the  frames  to  which  they 

cling, 

Investing  them  with  their  own  flowering  beau 
ties,  — 

Such  are  not  weak,  and  such  are  my  affections. 
Yet  may  their  panting  foliage  be  held  up 
By  even  a  frail  and  trembling   support. 
But  if  that  fail  them,  or  they  have  it  not, 
They  roll  in  stained    exuberance  on  the  earth, 
Their  purity  all  gone,  as  is  a  wave's 
When  o'er   its   bounds    it   breaks,  and    on    the 

ground 
Runs  stumbling. 


Is  't  my  pity  thou  would'st  have  ? 
'T  is  thine.     I  never  so  did  pity  man. 


ANTONIUS.  137 


KALIPHILUS. 


Nay,  pity  is  but  half  of  love  —  its  part 
Unselfish  ;    fix  thy  selfish  love  on  me 
So  that  I  be  the  other  part  of  thee, — 
The  part  least  worthy,  but  the  most  beloved, 
The  ward  and  warden  of  thy  happiness. 


With  pity,  then,  the  holier  half  of  love, 
And  gratitude,   I  pray  thee  be  content. 

KALIPHILUS. 

But  pity  ever  grows  by  its  own  action, 
And  often  from  it  springs,  feebly  at  first, 
The  other,  selfish  part  of  perfect  love.. 
I  'd  have  such  love  of  thee  ;    so  pity  me. 

SALOME. 

I  cannot  love  thee :  urge  me  then  no  more. 

KALIPHILUS. 

But  thou  must  love  me  ;  do  not  say  me  nay. 

I  cannot  go  without  thee  ;  cannot  stay 

Here  with  thee  ;  I  must  go,  must  go,  must  go. 

I  cannot  die,  alas  !  I  cannot  die  ! 

If  I  could  die,  I  'd  sever  now  the  bonds 

Which    bind    thee    to   me,    and   as    mine  own 

ghost, 
Surrender  thee  and  go  to  darkness. 


138  ANTONIUS. 

SALOME. 

Hush! 


KALIPHILUS. 


Behold  !  the  flocks  of  swooping  torments  cloud 
The  light,  and  plane  above  me ;  in  the  air 
I  hear  the  hissing  of  the  driving  scourge, 
Which,  me  pursuing,  comes  again  apace. 
I  go.     Ere  yet  the  martial  morn  shall  bear 
Its  purple  standard  up  the  eastern  slope 
Of  heaven,  I  must  depart.     Extend  thy  love, 
As  a  protecting  angel  spreads  its  wings 
Around,  to  shelter  me. 

SALOME. 

I  cannot  love  thee. 

My  heart  begins  to  fear,  and  shrink  from  thee  : 
Thy  face  is  changed,  and  anguish  comes  upon 

it, 
Such  as  the  fallen  Lucifer  might  bear. 


KALIPHILUS. 


The  anguish  of  my  love  kept  from  its  own. 

SALOME. 

Its  own  ? 


KALIPHILUS. 


Yea,  I  have  earned  the  right  to  own  thee. 


ANTONIUS.  139 

I  Ve  bought  thee  with  my  soul.     Then  of  ray 

soul 
Take  thou  the  place. 

SALOME. 

Alas!  a  sinful  soul 
Wouldst  thou  have  then. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Thou  dost  not  know  me  yet. 
I  saw  thee  dance  before  King  Herod  ;  loved ; 
Heard  thy  demand  for  John  the  Baptist's  head. 
And,  when  the  executioner  refused, 
For  that  in  him  some  throbs  of  nature  moved, 
To- do  his  office  on  the  holy  man, 
I  took  his  place,  because  it  was  thy  wish 
To  have  that  head. 


O  spare  me.     Speak  not  of  it. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Thou  tremblest.    Sooner  I  'd  have  gone  to  hell 
To  lead  the  devil  chained,  had  I  but  known 
What  was  before  me  ;  sooner  would  have  met 
The  roaring  fiends  in  phalanx  than  his  look, 
Though  full  of  tenderness  and  pity,  or 
Have    heard   his  voice,  as    he  was  praying    for 
me. 


140  ANTONIUS. 

And,  when  the  axe  fell  on  his  spotless  neck, 
A  light  celestial  filled  the  dungeon  ;  forms 
Of  heavenly  beauty  floated  in  the  air, 
And  seemed  to  lift  the  prison  roof  and  pass 
Into  the  skies.     I  brought  the  head  to  thee, 
And  saw  thy  horror  ;  saw  thee  swoon,  and  fled, 
Lest  thou  should'st  wake  and  curse  me. 


O  my  God! 
Is  it  not  finished ! 


KALIPHILUS. 

Then  returned,  a  courtier, 
I  sought  thee  through  the  palace,  but  in  vain. 
Two  fires  consumed  me  :  passion,  lit  by  thee ; 
Remorse,  for  slaying  him. 


O  pity  me ! 

KALIPHILUS. 

The  thousand  telescopic  eyes  of  power, 
From  its  bright  eminence,  could  see  thee  not, 
Though  ranging  all  the  world,  and  hopelessly 
My    passion   groped.      I   could   not    bear    the 

weight 
Of  my  remorse,  which  crushed  me,  whispering 

ever 


ANTONIUS.  141 

That  I  had  killed  a  prophet  of  my  people. 
To  make  amends,  a  zealot  I  became 
For  the  old  religion ;  ignorant  that  he, 
Whom  I  had  slain,  came  to  announce  its  end. 
So,  when  the  Christ  was  brought  to  trial,  none 
Cried  out  so  loud  as  I  to  crucify  Him. 
I  thought  I  did  God  service.     I  had  read 
The  prophets,  but  I  understood  them  not. 
I  waited  still  a  Christ  more  glorious 
Than  Solomon  ;  than  David  more  inspired  ; 
And,  when  they  led  Him  forth  to  execution, 
Whom  I  believed  impostor  and  blasphemer, 
And  He  was  fainting  underneath  His  cross, 
And  moved  but  slowly,  with  unsteady  step, 
Spurred,  as  I  thought,  by  a  most  holy  zeal, 
I  smote  Him  with  my  open  hand,  and  said,  — 
Go  faster.     Instant  with  the  stroke  I  felt 
A  weariness,  as  of  a  thousand  years, 
Which    cleft    my    bones,    my  marrow    melted, 

crushed 
My   firm-knit   muscles,    cracked   each    separate 

nerve, 

As  He  looked  on  me,  terrible  as  God 
In- judgment  ;    while,    with   voice   unheard    by 

others, 

To  me  as  awful  as  that  which  shall  yet 
Pronounce  the  final  sentence,  He  declared 


142  ANTONIUS. 

My  doom,  —  to  walk  the  earth  until  that  day 
When  He  as  final  judge  shall  come  again. 


Oh,  dreadful ! 

KALIPHILUS. 

Through  my  frame  great  terror  ran, 
And  Hell  came  surging  o'er  me  ;    everywhere 
Its  mounting  billows  boiled,  while  awful  gulf's 
Lay  dark  and  bottomless  between. 


Poor  soul ! 

KALIPHILUS. 

The  rude  procession  passed.    I  turned  and  fled, 
Surprised  that  I  could  flee  not  overwhelmed, 
And  find  what  seemed  the  earth  still  under  me. 
While  thunders  followed  after  me  and  cried, 
As  if  about  to  alight  upon  my  shoulders,  — 
Cro  faster,  Jew  ;  go  faster. 


Hopeless  Jew ! 

KALIPHILUS. 

I  am  so  weary !     I  have  wandered  now 
For  what  should  be  ten  thousand  centuries, 
And  yet  I  count  the  years  upon  my  fingers. 
And  so  to  wander  wearily  forever  I 


ANTONIUS.  143 


Why  e'en  the  stars,  which  seem  eternal,  fall, 
As  fruits  mature,  from  heaven's  silver  tree, 
And  cease  to  be.  How  sweetly  then  they  rest ! 
But  I  shall  never  ripen,  ne'er  decay. 
Shall  live  till  one  by  one  they  all  fall  down, 
And  the  great  dome,  like  to  a  withered  top 
Of  an  o'erage~d  pine  when  fire  is  set 
Among  its  branches,  disappear  in  flames. 
Oh,  I  should  pity  them,  if  they,  like  me, 
Must  wander  on  forever  in  the  night, 

o       ~ 

Growing  so  old,  and  yet  forever  young; 

The  bloom  which    they  first    looked    upon    all 

faded ; 
The  valleys,  where,  in    their   young   life,  they 

kept 

Love-vigils  and  the  appointments  sweet  of  love, 
Long   turned  to  deserts,  where  lie  branch  and 

trunk 
Of  trees  which  blushed   and    trembled  in  their 

gaze, 
Gnawed    bare    by    the    devouring    years,    and 

bleached 

Like  bones  of  a  long-perished  caravan. 
How  weary  must  they  be  of  shining  then 
When   they   shall   know   they    shine   for   none 

they  've  loved. 


Oh  I  do  pity  thee. 


144  ANTONIUS. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Dost  thou  indeed  ? 

Since  here  I  found  thee  I  have  had  some  res 
pite,  — 

And  that  dread  voice  has  ceased  to  drive  me  on. 

The  dreadful  weariness  shall  recommence, 

The  scourge  shall  fall,  the  voice  shall  make  me 
quake, 

So  soon  as  thou  shalt  leave   me. 


Oh,  alas! 

KALIPHILUS. 

This  respite  is  the  fruit  of  love  for  thee  ; 
For    love    is    Heaven,  and    Heaven    is    perfect 

rest. 

Save  thee  I  hate  all  things,  and  hate  is  Hell. 
So  thou  for  me  art  Heaven,  my  only  hope. 
Thy  lips  for  me  the  gates  of  Paradise, 
Thine  eyes  the  crystal  sea,  thy  brow  the  throne, 
Thy  hair  the  darkness  overshadowing  it. 
Shall  I  not  plead  for  thee,  as  thou  wouldst  plead 
For  thy  salvation  ?     Shall  I  not  be  heard, 
As   thou   wouldst   be  by  Him   who   holds   the 

keys 

Of  the  celestial  city  ?     Wouldst  thou  not 
By  will  persistent  climb  the  way  to  heaven, 
And  enter  it  by  force,  and  capture  there 


ANTONIUS.  145 

Redemption,  rather  than  be  cast  away? 
So  will  I  plead,  so  climb,  so  capture  thee, 
My  heaven.    There  's  majesty  in  the  true  love 
Of  a  true  man  compels  a  mutual  love ; 
It  should  not  plead,  but  gently  overcome. 


I  cannot  love  thee.  Would  that  I  could  help 
thee. 

My  heart  bleeds  for  thee.  Wilt  thou  not  re 
pent? 

There's  nothing  hopeless  but  impenitence. 

Repent,  and  be  forgiven. 

KALIPHILUS. 

I  have  dared, 

And  felt  damnation  for  thee,  and  would  still 
In  hell  be  happy,  if  thou  wouldst  but  love  me. 
I  bear  no  marks,  such  as  the  devils  have. 
Put  on  them  in  their  prison-house,  to  bear 
Forever ;  I  come  not  and  vanish  ;  no, 
Nor  enter  into  men.     Yet  I  'm  a  devil, 
And    burn    in    tortures  ;    plot,  and    hate,    and 

mock. 

Whichever  way  I  go  I  wade  in  torments. 
And  this  for  thee.  Can  such  as  I  repent 
And  ask  forgiveness  ?  Could  I  rise  to  heaven, 

10 


146  ANTONIUS. 

E'en  to  its  crystal  gates  the  flames  would 
burn 

With  tenfold  torture.     Though  I  went  beyond 

The  farthest  flight  of  morn's  far  -  shooting  ar 
rows, 

The  horrid  pit  would  seethe  around  me  still. 

I  bear  it  in  me  —  a  whole  universe 

Of  woe. 

SALOME. 

I  '11  pray  for  thee ;  mayhap  He  '11  hear. 

KALIPHILUS. 

He  will  not  hear  thee  ;  or  will  hear  to  laugh. 

Nay,  I  cannot  repent ;  't  is  His  decree. 

For,  could  I  once  repent,  He  must  forgive, 

Since  He  hath  so  professed,  and   cannot  lie. 

Forgiveness  were  the  end  of  this  my  woe  ; 

And  so  my  punishment  were  ended  ;  so 

His  judgment  made  of  no  effect.     Ah  no. 

I  am  not  in  a  state  of  trial,  but 

Of  retribution.     My  probation  's  ended. 

He  dare  not  pardon  me  ;  nay,  ask  Him  not ; 

He  cannot  do  it. 

SALOME. 

Pray  thee,  speak  not  so. 

KALIPHILUS. 

I  will  blaspheme  and  curse  Him.     I  will  tempt, 


ANTONIUS.  147 


That  He,  perchance,  may  blow  upon  and  blast 

me. 
I  will  dishonor  Him  in  His  own  imacre  : 

O      ' 

I  '11  prove  that  He,  assuming  all  perfections, 
Hath  made  a  devil  in  His  glorious  form, 
Permits  him,  nay,  doth  bait  and  tempt  him  on. 


The  phrases  from  thy  strong,  o'erheated  soul 
Like    dark   clouds   rise,  in  which   the   thunder 

rides 

Concealed.     I  pray  thee  be  more  calm.     I  fear 
The  threatened  bolts.     Argue  more  patiently. 

KALtPHILUS. 

Fie  !     Bid  the  surface  of  the  infernal  lake 
Be  calm  while  all  its  fires  are  leaping;  ask 
Tornadoes  but  to  whisper  in  thine  ear 
Like  zephyrs  ;  or  the  thunder-storm  to  speak 
In  tones  like  those  of  a  love-making  boy. 
If  they  obey  thee,  then  will  I  o'ercome 
The  boiling  tumult  in  my  soul,  and  be 
A  kneeling,  soft-toned  pleader,  smooth  and  calm. 


But,  if  thy  vaulting  words  so  strike  at  Heaven, 
I  '11  hear  thee  not* 


148  ANTONIUS. 

KALIPHII..US. 

Omnipotence  itself 

Cannot  undo  my  doom,  nor  add  thereto. 
It  cannot  blot  me  out ;  that  would  be  bliss. 
Nor  add  unto  my  woe,  for  that  would  end  me. 
Thou  art  my  only  hope,  my  holiness. 
Let,  then,  thy  love  be  as  a  draught,  to  cool, 
If  but  a  moment,  this  consuming  torment ; 
A  drop  upon  my  parching  tongue  ;  a  breath 
Of  heaven's  air,  in  death  to  give  me  life ; 
A  hand  to  stay  me  as  I  sink  forever  ; 
A  draught,  in  which,  from    thy  bright    soul  as 

from 

A  crystal  cup  filled  at  the  fount  of  hope, 
Held  by  an  angel  from  the  throne  of  God, 
I  'd  drink  eternal  life. 

SALOME. 

Would  it  were  thine  ! 

Thy  love  for  me  can  never  make  thee  blest ; 
Nor  mine  for  thee,  though  I  should   love  thee 

more 

Than  thine  own  wish   could  name,  if  powerful 
To  grasp  and  wield  the  perfect  language,  which 
Pure  spirits  in  communion  use.     The  love 
Of  Him,  whom  thou  hast  wounded,  can  alone 
Make  thee  forever  happy.     Seek  it  then. 


ANTONIDS.  149 


KALII-HILUS. 


I  am  condemned,  therefore  cannot  repent. 
For,  if  in  hell  the  devils  could  repent, 
And  be  forgiven,  the  arch  fiend  himself 
Were  but  a  sinner,  not  a  hopeless  devil. 
'T  is  sin  and  condemnation  makes  the  fiend  ; 
The  awful  fiat  of  the  final  doom, 
Irrevocable,  making  sin  eternal, 
Destroying  wholly  sweet  forgetfulness, 
And  kindling  memory  to  a  burning   lake. 
Alas,  alas,  that  I  could  hope  for  death ! 


Yea,  death  may  be  unto  the  lowly  saint 
A  rose-clad  portal,  though  the  dreaded  gate 
By  which  all  throng  into  an  unknown  land. 

KALIPHILUS. 

But  let  it  rise  before  me  in  its  form 
In  which  all  terrors  mingle  indistinct, 
And  glare  from  eyeless  sockets  burning  dull ; 
With  suffocating  darkness  fill  the  world, 
Breathed  from  its  nostrils  ;  while  beneath  I  feel 
Long  arms  upreaching,  folding  me  about, 
To  drag  me'  down  the  bottomless  abyss, 
Which  opens  under  me  ;  ay,  let  him  seize 
Each  separate  nerve,  in  all  its  trembling  parts, 
With  red-hot,  gnawing  pincers  which  consume 
not, 


150  ANTONIUS. 

And  hold  me  in  them  o'er  a  reeking  gulf, 
With  horrors  roaring,  where  the  dashing  wrecks 
Of  lost  worlds,  crashing  in  the  fiery  sea, 
Mingle  their  dull  reports  with  shrieks  and  jeers, 
And  groans,  and  laughs  infernal,  till  his  arms, 
His  hundred  thousand  never  tiring  arms, 
Shall  all  grow  weary,  and  I  '11  welcome  him 
With  rapture,  on  him  fix  a  lover's  grasp, 
If,  after  all,  he  will  but  blot  me  out, 
So  that  nor  memory,  nor  consciousness, 
Nor  fear,  nor  dread,  nor  any  thing  am  I. 


What  misery  is  thine  !    "  Come  unto  me 
Ye  who  are  heavy  laden,  I  will  give 
You  rest."    So  hath  the  Master  promised ;  come, 
Oh,  come  to  Him. 

KALIPHILUS. 

I  cannot,  will  not,  —  no, 

Though  He  should  come  and  here  beseech  me;  no. 
How  could  I  know  Him  that  He  was  the  Christ  ? 
He  made    me  what  I  am,  and  makes  me  wish 
To  be  so,  rather  than  before  Him  bow 
In  penitence.     Such  is  my  condemnation. 
I  would  be  penitent  to  thwart  His  will 
If  it  were  possible ;  but  He  's  Almighty. 
Heed  thou   my   prayer.       His   lightnings    I  've 
outfaced, 


ANTONIUS.  151 

But  worship  thee,  as  I,  in  days  of  yore, 
Before  Jehovah  bowed  and  made  confession, 
While  yet  the  Lord  of  Israel  was  my  God. 

SALOME. 

I  cannot  listen  to  thee.     Cease,  I  pray. 
What  profit  hast  thou  so  to  wound  my  soul, 
And  make  me  see  how  very  bad  thou  art  ? 

KALIPHILUS. 

I  must  lay  bare  my  parching,  burning   heart, 
And  let  the  gentle  dew  of  sweet  confession 
Upon  it  fall.     And  so  I  come  to  thee 
And  open  all  my  life.     I  would  be  known 
By  thee  as  by  myself;  't  is  love's  demand, 
And  tender  proof  of  love.     I  know  that  thou 
Hast  tenderness  and  mercy  like  His  own, 
Without  His  vengeance  and  His  dreadful  justice ; 
And  I  would  feel  thy  soul  envelop  me, 
As  holiness  of  God  enfolds  His  saints. 
The  story  of  my  sins  awakes  thy  pity, 
And  leads  it  to  me  weeping,  as  I  lie 
Before  thee  prostrate.    Pity  leads  thy  thoughts  ; 
Thy  thoughts  shall  silently  lead  forward  love, 
Who,  blind,  is  always  led,  and  I  be    blest. 

SALOME. 

Thou  'dst   have   me  love  him   who   hath   done 
those  things 


152  ANTONIDS. 

My  soul  abhors  ?  Could  I  speak  thus  to  thee  ?  — 
I  know  thou  art  not  good,  and  yet  I  love  thee  ; 
I  know  thou  art  not  faithful,  yet  I  love  thee ; 
I  know  thou  art  most  sinful,  yet  I  love  thee ; 
I  will  not  say  I  love  thee  for  thy  sinning, 
But  yet  thy  sinning  makes  me  love  thee  more,  — 
Should  I  speak  thus  to  thee  ? 

KALIPHILUS. 

Ay,  ay,  forever. 
And  that  were  womanlike. 

SALOME. 

Perchance  it  were. 

KALIPHILUS. 

So  love  me,  and  my  sinning  shall  be  o'er, 
And  memory  shall  be  awhile  beguiled 
Of  half  its  terrors,  which  now  haunt  my  soul, 
More  dread  than  those  which  dwell  beneath  the 

world, 

Where  Lucifer  rides  roaring  on  the  ruin, 
Drives  on    the    storms,  and  works    the   general 

wreck. 

SALOME. 

If  thou  couldst  pray  — 

i 
I  could  create  myself, 


KALIPHILUS. 


ANTONIUS.  153 

For  I  could  sooner  breathe  the  breath  of  life 
Into  a  soul  than  prayer  into  my  heart. 


Nay,  turn  thy  thoughts  to  holy  things  and  hope  ; 
Thy  brain  is  heated  till  its  vapors  form 
Unreal  and  dreadful  shapes.     Thy  love  for  me 
Shall    pass   away  with    them.     The    sun   which 

makes 
The  vapors  rise  from  earth  dispels  them  too. 

KALIPHILUS. 

By  the  great  devil  I  swear ;  by  his  black  throne 
Fast  anchored  where  huge  fire-billows  break, 
From  every  seething  side,  forever  on  it; 
And  by  the  pitchy  dome,  the  groans  which  surge 
Above  the  bellowing  of  the  flaming  tides, 
The  whole  affection  of  my  passionate  soul 
Is  fixed  upon  thee,  never  can  be   moved. 

SALOME. 

Oh,  swear  not  such  an  oath  ! 

KALIPHILUS. 

I  '11  swear  by  thee, 
Sole  good,  sole  hope,  sole  deity  for  me. 


154  ANTONIUS. 

SALOME. 

Thou  shalt  not  call  me  so.     I  will  not  hear  thee ; 
Thou  shalt  no  more  so  use  me  to  blaspheme. 

KALIPHILUS. 

See  how  I  need  the  sweet  dew  of  thy  love 
To  cool  this  torment,  cairn  this  raging  woe. 


Come  with  me  ;  let  me  pray  for  thee  and  me. 

KALIPHILUS. 

I  will  not  hear  thee  till  thou  grant  my  prayer. 
Nay,  leave  this  savage  isle,  and  come  with  me 
Upon  these  waters  to  some  land  not  cursed. 
I  will  unlock  the  stars,  and  we  will  go 
Beyond  their  glittering  barriers,  beyond 
The  western  portals  of  the  firmament  — 

SALOME. 

I  cannot  go  with  thee  ;  entreat  me  not. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Where,  as  from  chaos,  will  I  call  a  world, 
Which,    hidden,    lies    there    richer    than     the 

thoughts 

Of  eastern  dreamers,  sleeping  where  the  sun 
Selects  his  golden  rays ;  so  very  fair 


• 


ANTONIUS.  155 


As  it  were  made  for  thine  abode  ;  so  great 
As  't  were  the  cradle  and  the  home  of  giants. 
And  we  will  be  its  Adam   and  its  Eve, 
Its  patriarchs,  its  prophets,  king  and  queen. 


My  duty  binds  me  here  to  this  poor  people. 
But  could  I  leave  them  in  their   utmost   need, 
And  could  I  love  thee,  I  could  never  go 
Under  the  guidance  of  so  wild  a  vision. 


KALIPHILUS. 


So  were  the  holy  prophets'  visions  scorned, 
Foreshadowing  no  purer  truth  than  this. 

SALOME. 

Oh,  mock  not  at  their  holiness. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Not  I. 

The  devil  himself  can  truly  prophesy, 
And  I,  unholy,  still  may  speak  the  truth. 
Why,  know'st  thou  not,  girl,  that  the  only  thing 
About  me  holy  is  my  love  for  thee  ?  — 
The  only  pui'ifier,  only  savior,  — 
And  that  it,  like  a  glory,  emanates 
And  wraps  me  round,  and  makes  me  like  a  god 


156  ANTONIUS. 

In  nobleness,  in  purity,  in  strength, 
When    I    am    witli    thee,    hoping    that    thou  'It 
love  me  ? 

SALOME. 

Oh,  seek  a  higher  holiness,  a  love 
That  lasts  for  aye.     For  mine    thou    must   not 
hope. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Strip  not  the  archangel  of  his  glory,  lest 
He  leave  his  place  and  roam  a  naked  fiend. 


If  thou  wilt  not  pray  I  will  pray  alone, 
And,    with   thine,    bring   my   woes    before    the 
Throne. 


A  Sacred   Grove  near  the  Sea-shore. 
DRUIDS,  BARDS,  AND  WARRIORS. 

DRUIDS. 
HEAR  the  shouting  waters  ! 

Every  wave,  a  courier,  brings 
News  portentous,  cries  of  slaughters, 

Each  to  outstrip  the  other,  springs. 
On  the  shore  each,  falling  breathless, 

Faints  ere  foaming  lips  can  utter 
Warning  words  of  import  deathless, 

Yet,  of  foes  approaching  mutter. 


To  the  trees  the  swift  south  winds 

Whisper  mysteries,  as  they  go, 
And  the  sacred  grove  unbinds 

Chaplets  of  the  mistletoe, 
Casts  them  to  the  flying  breeze, 
Bending  toward  it  as  it  flees. 
And  the  oaks,  unused  to  fly, 
Lift  their  branches  to  the  sky, 
As,  in  terror,  hands  on  high 
Are  lifted  deprecatingly, 


158  ANTONIUS. 

For  defense  from  woes  to  be, 
Coming  from  the  southern  sea. 


The  king  of  the  world  refits  his  ships ! 
His  horses  dash  on  with  foam-flinging  lips  ! 

As  the  rays  of  the  sun, 

Our  spears  in  the  fame-giving  rush  of  the  fight 
Shall  scatter  this  brooding  cloud  of  night 

Ere  the  day  be  done  ! 


Behold  !  the  king  approaches  ! 
Enter  CARACTACUS. 

DRUIDS. 
All  hail,  Caractacus  ! 

BARDS. 

Hail,  king  of  British  men  ! 

WARRIORS. 

All  hail,    thou  chief  of  warriors  ! 

CARACTACUS. 

In    days  gone  by   our    fields   were   clothed   in 

green 
Our  forests  ever  singing  hymns  to  Peace, 


ANTONIUS.  159 

Our  brooks  made  music  for  the  dancino-  flowers. 

O 

Our  daughters  wandered,  safe  as  goddesses, 

o  *  o  * 

Through  all  the  sylvan  labyrinths,  and  sought 
Upon  the  sea-shore,  in  the  quiet  glen, 
Or  on  the  mountain  side,  or  in  the  lake, 
The    chaste    embrace    of    health,    and  as   they 

blushed, 

Quick  modesty  with  crimson  banners  came, 
And  o  'er   the    plains  and  hills    of  each    sweet 

face, 
And   dimpled  valleys,   where   their   smiles   lay 

hid, 

With  health  contested  for  the  mastery. 
And  as  they  chased  each  other  o'er  the  field 
Now  banners  of  the  one,  the  other's  now 
Were  up  and  down.     And  in  each  peaceful  bay 
The  heavens  gathered  undisturbed  their  brood 
Of  clouds  reflected.     Then  to  peaceful  vales 
The  kine  went  forth  at  morn,  again  at  eve 
To  come  securely  back.     In  waving  fields 
Unguarded  stayed  the  harvest  for  the  hand 
Which  had   prepared  it.     From    the    mountain 

glen 

Then  came  the  hunter  home  full  sure  to  find 
His  treasures  safe  ;   that  no  intrusive  tread 
Had  visited  the  temple  of  his  love. 
His  weapons  on  the  wall  in  order  hung ; 
He  lay  at  ease,  the  while  his  gentle  mate 


1 60  ANTONIUS. 

With  busy  gladness,  and  the  quiet  joy 

Of  strong  affection  with  its  all  content, 

Moved  lightly  to  prepare  the  evening  meal ; 

Still  talking  of  the  children,  of  their  sports, 

Their  wondrous  sayings,  their  precocious  lore  ; 

Or  of  the  visits  from  her  neighbors  fair, 

Or  marvelous  story  from  some  gossip  heard. 

The  supper  ended,  every  dish  disposed 

In  orderly  array  upon  their  shelves, 

With   door  unbarred,    they  seek   their    waiting 

couch, 

Nor  think  of  guard,  but  trust  their  sole  defense 
To  their  own  honesty  and  innocence. 


'T  was  so.     Ah,  calm,  religious  days  ! 

BAEDS. 

'T  was  so.     Ah,  beauteous,  happy  clays  ! 

WAKEIOKS. 

'T  was  so.     Ah,  dull  and  heavy  days ! 

CAEACTACUS. 

The  king  of  the  world  arose, 
He  summoned  his  Roman  hosts. 
He  lifted  up  the  spear, 
He  mounts  his  wave-borne  coursers. 


ANTONIDS.  161 

The  south  wind  guides  him  to  our  shore. 

Bright  his   gleaming  steel, 

Strange  his  engines, 

Strong  his  shields, 

Stern  his  warriors, 

Terrible  his  showers  of  death. 

Our  young  men  fall. 

His  host  leaps  on  our  strand. 

Our  virgins  are  made .  captives  ; 

Dreadfully,  by  distant  breezes  borne, 

We  hear  their  fainting  wail. 

Our  houses  flame, 

Downtrodden  are  our  fields, 

Our  harvests  by  the  stranger  gathered, 

Our  wives  defiled, 

Our  children  fatherless, 

Our  sacred  groves  polluted, 

Our  crystal  fountains  turned  to  blood. 

Ghosts  sadly  wander  by  our  streams ; 

Mourning  spirits,  walking  on  our  hills 

In  misty  robes,  are  seen. 

Orbed  comets  drive  athwart  the  skies, 

Before  so  peaceful. 

Fiery  dust,  in  ever-lengthening  clouds, 

Marks  their  headlong  course. 


DKUIDS. 

Why  sleep  ye,  gods  of  Briton  ? 
11 


162  ANTONIUS. 

Awake,  awake ! 

Come  from  your  airy  halls. 

WARRIORS. 

Strike  the  shield. 

Rouse  the  heroes ; 

Raise  the  song,  ye  Bards. 

BARDS. 

Our  harps  are  sad ; 

They  will  not  utter  a  defiant  measure ; 

They  tremble  and  lament. 

CARACTACUS. 

The  king  of  the  world  hath  wrought  this  change. 

The  gods  of  Rome  exult. 

Where  our  warriors  ? 

Where  our  men  of  old  ? 

Their  ghosts  came  joyously  on  clouds 

To  see  the  fight. 

They  thought  again  to  see 

The  deeds  of  old. 

They  saw  their  weak-armed  sons. 

They  saw  their  timid  children  fail. 

They  turned  away, 

They  hid  their  faces  in  their  cloudy  mantles, 

And  mournfully  returned  into  their  place. 

Where  wrere  our  men  of  old  ? 

Where  were  our  warriors? 


ANTONIUS.  163 

WARRIORS. 

Our  warriors  met  the  foe. 

They  were  not  timid  ; 

They  were  not  weak  armed. 

The  stranger's  host  was  many  ; 

They  were  few.  — 

Smite  the  shield, 

Bear  the  challenge  forth, 

Bid  the  wave-borne  stranger  come  again. 

CARACTACUS. 

Two  times  hath  Bel  performed  his  daily  course 

And  carried  his  bright  shield, 

Light-giving,  through  the   heavens,  since  again 

The  ship-borne  Romans  on  the  flood  were  seen. 

Their  burnished  armor,  on  the  enridged  sea 

Flashed  warnings, 

As  beacon-fires  upon  our  mountain  ranges. 

Again  with  fear  and  joy 

Our  trembling  maidens  saw 

Our  youthful  warriors  assume  their  arms, 

And  hoped,  with  timid  doubts, 

To  see  them  with  their  fame  return. 

Again  in  dim  array 

Our  fathers'  ghosts  assembled  on  the  clouds, 

But  slowly  and  with  sadness, 

Lest  they  once  more  should  see 

Their  feeble  sons  retire. 


164  ANTONIUS. 

WARRIORS. 

Feeble  are  not  their  sons. 

The  spear  was  uplifted, 

The  sword  of  our  fathers  unsheathed ; 

The  boastful  foe  came  not. 

CARACTACUS. 

Vainly  looked  the  ghosts. 

The  maidens  feared  and  hoped  in  vain. 

Bright  dwellers  in  the  airy  halls  had  seen 

Our  haughty  island  lashed 

Before  the  stranger's  face. 

They  could  not  see  it  lashed  again. 

The  men  of  old  were  dead,  — 

The  heroes  of  the  times  of  old ; 

And  there  were  none  to  guard  it,  — 

No  heroes  to  repel  the  insulting  foe. 

Then  came  the  gods  from  cloudy  palaces 

Swift-riding  on  the  storms, 

In  panoply  of  fire. 

The  waters  prostrate  fell 

Upon  the  sand. 

The  forest  bowed  itself. 

They  breathed  upon  the  proud,  sea-ruling  host ; 

With  thundering  noise  the  ponderous  locks  they 

turned, 

And  from  their  cages  let  the  raging  winds. 
Then  melted  all  the  stranger's  ships, 


ANTONIUS.  165 

And  disappeared  as  mists. 

His  warriors, 

Like  stones  hurled  on  the  billows,  sunk. 

The  king  of  the  world 

O 

Looks  from  his  lofty  tower  : 

He  scans  the  north  way  for  his  conquering  hosts 

Returning. 

They  come  not. 

Wearied  is  he  gazing, 

But  they  come  not. 

Bright  eyes  of  their  women  now  grow  dim, 

Like  the  moon  when  mists  arise, 

For  they  look  through  tears 

Vainly  for  their  loved  ones. 

But  our  maidens'  eyes  are  like  the  sun 

After  showers. 

In  their  rays  some  drops  still  glisten, 

For  they  see  their  warriors 

With  shining  arms  and  spears  not  reddened 

Returning 

Without  their  fame  ; 

Not  heroes. 

The  gods  of  Briton  overthrew 

Unaided  these  proud  Romans. 

Enter  RANMOR. 


Where  are  the  priests  ? 
Where  is  the  sacrifice? 


166  ANTONIUS. 

Who  bringeth  a  thank-offering? 
What !    shall  our  gods  be  mocked  ? 
Where  is  the   sacrifice  ? 
Where  are  the  priests  ? 


The  priests  attend. 
They  do  not  mock  the  gods. 
They  have  no  Roman  captive 
A  victim  for  the  sacrifice. 
To  offer  any  other  were 
To  mock  the  gods. 

CAKACTACUS. 

Ye  have  no  captive ! 

Hush !    proclaim  it  not. 

The  warriors  of  the  times  of  old 

Shall  hear,  and  leave  the  feast  of  shells 

To  lift  the  shadowy  spear, 

Or  wander  mourning  in  their  native  vales. 

Where  are  thy  warriors,  Briton  ? 

Thy  maidens  follow  in  the  stranger's  triumph. 

Thou  hast  no  captive ! 

Thy  virgins  spread  the  couch  for  Roman  mas 
ters. 

Thou  hast  no  captive  ! 

Thy  wailing  wives  make  joyous  the  world's 
king. 


ANTONIUS.  167 

Thou  hast  no  captive  ! 

Where  are  thy  warriors,  Briton  ? 

Where  thy  heroes'  fame  ? 

Where  is  thy  glory? 

Where  is  thy  defense  ? 

Thy  women  shall  lift  up  the  spear, 

Shall  draw    the    bow,    and   handle    the    bossed 

buckler. 

Thy  men  have  failed. 
Where  are  thy  warriors,  Briton  ?  — 

Enter  a  MESSENGER. 
What  news? 

MESSENGER. 

Upon  the  southern  sea  a  force 
Of  many  ships,  as  flocks  of  water-fowl, 
Are  seen ;    their  numbers  growing ;  one  by  one 
They  seem  to  alight  upon  the  swelling  main. 


CARACTACUS. 


The  king  of  ships  is  on  his  course. 
His  winged  steeds  are  harnessed. 
They  prance  along  the  main. 
Their  foaming  breasts  defy  us. 


MESSENGER. 


They  yet  are  distant,  and  the  peevish  winds 
Now  turn  against  them  — 


168  ANTONIUS. 

CARACTACUS. 

Ere  they  come 

We  can  prepare  a  sacrifice, 

Appease  the  gods, 

New  whet  the  sword  and  spear  — 

DRUIDS. 

Behold  the  chief! 

BARDS. 

Lo  !   Alpindargo  comes  —  the  Just. 

WARRIORS. 

The  holy  Alpindargo  shall  instruct  us. 
Enter  ALPINDARGO. 

ALPINDARGO. 

Peace  be  with  you,  my  children. 

CARACTACUS. 

Peace  ?     When    the    eagles  from  their    heights 

descend, 
The  hawks  are  screaming,  and  the  wolves  are 

howling  ? 
The  stranger  cometh  with  his  ships. 

ALPINDARGO. 

I  know  it. 


ANTONIUS.  169 

CAEACTACUS. 

What  shall  we  do? 

ALPINDARGO. 

Resist  him. 

Were  this  a  question  of  aggressive  war 
Brave  men  might  differ.     Who  would   not  de 
fend 

His  home  against  invaders  unprovoked 
Should  lose  the  name  of  Briton :    let  him  go 

o 

And  take  his  place  with  the  invaders'  slaves, 
And    a   new   name.     Else    must    he   faint   and 

die, 

For  British  air  can  never  nourish  cowards. 
Within  a  thousand  halls  the  men,  whose  words 
Live  after  them,  have  told  you  how  your  sires 
Met  the  ship-driving  foe  and  vanquished  him ; 
How  mighty  were  their  spears  in  hands  of  heroes. 
Have  any  sucked  the  milk  of  hares,  to  say, — 
Come,    let    us    flee  ?      Let   them    as    hares    be 

hunted. 

Were  any  cradled  in  a  serpent's  nest 
And  abject  taught  to    crawl?     Then    let  them 

hiss, 

And  abject  crawl  out  of  the  ranks  of  men. 
Would  any  lay  aside  the  shield  and  spear 
To  sing  of  peace,  and  do  a  master's  bidding  ? 
Go,  come,  as  he  commands,  —  eat,  drink,    and 

sleep, 


170  ANTONIUS. 

As  he  permits  ?    Let  him  go  serve  their  women  ; 
For    such    were    made     to    serve,    but    not    in 

Briton. 
Those    who    would    dwell    in    Briton    must    be 

masters, 

Subjected  never ;    British  men  must  rule. 
Who   talks    of   prudence?     What   is   prudence, 

then  ? 

To  tamely  serve  insulting  foes  ?    or  choose 
That  way  which  leads  to  mastery  or  death? 
If  mastery  —  then  freedom,  wealth,  and  peace, 
The  love  and  grateful  honor  of  our  children. 
If  death  —  fame,  glory  in  the  halls  of  Hesus. 

WARRIORS. 

Call  the  wolves  !    Call  the  hawks  ?     Call  crows 

and  ravens  ! 

Let  Slaughter  bid  his  guests. 
Death  to  all  foes !    double  death  to  all  cravens ! 
We  wait  our  chief's  behests. 


Let  the  king  of  the  world 
Come  on  with  his  ship-borne  hosts  ! 
Ere  the  banners  of  morn  be  unfurled 
They  shall  wander,  bewailing  ghosts. 
Ho,  ho,  for  the  battle  ! 

The   clangor    of  shields  and   the   arrows'   swift, 
rattle ! 


ANTONIUS.  171 

DRUIDS. 

The  sacrifice  !  the  sacrifice  !   else  we  offend  the 

gods  ! 

Our  gods  offended  are  our  foes'  allies. 
Vain,    then,    our  valor ;    vain    our  prayers  and 

cries  ; 
Nor   spear,    nor   buckler,    can    avail    against   so 

dreadful  odds. 


CARACTACUS. 


Tell  us,  holy  man, 
The  battle's  issue. 

ALPINDARGO. 

I  come  now  from  the  mount  of  vision, 

From  which  I  saw  what  shall  be 

If  we  propitiate  the  gods. 

Jow,  looking  from  his  cloudy  halls,  beheld 

Upon  the  horizon's  southern  verge  approach 

A    form  which    darkened  all    the   heavens,  and 

knew 
The  earth-quaking   tread    of  Mars.      Jow  calls 

Taranis  ; 
And   fast,    loud   breathing,    from   his    darksome 

cave 

The  god  swells  out  and  scans  the  darkened  sky. 
He  sees  swift-moving  Mars,  whose  mantle  black 
A  bloody  border  marks,  and  forms  of  ruin, 


172  ANTONIUS. 

And  conflagrations  run  along  its  edge. 
And  now  the  gods  both  hear  his   distant  chal 
lenge,  — 

A  roar  reverberating  through  the  arch, 
On  which  the  yet  unshaken  heavens  rest, 
Deep  as  the  ocean's  opening  cry,  when  first 
The  south-west  wind  disturbs    its    heavy  slum 
bers. 
With  answering   roar  Jow  threw  the  challenge 

back. 

Then    shook   the    earth,    and   many   stars,    dis 
placed, 

Fell  hissing  in  the  sea,  which  boiled  with  heat. 
One  foot  upon  a  tower  of  eastern  clouds, 
One  on  a  cloud-built  mountain  in  the  west, 
Taranis  stands,  and  lifts  his  form  on  high, 
Prepared  to  summon  all  the  gods  to  war. 
His  mantle  falls,  like  night,  upon  the  earth  ; 
His  breath    beclouds    the   heavens.     He   firmly 

grasps 

His  awful  sledge,  swings  it  from  pole  to  pole, 
Swift  gleaming  like  a  comet  in  the  dark, 
And  smites  the  shield  carried  aloft  by  Bel, 
Whose  rays  illumine  all  the  universe. 
From  its  just  equipoise  by  the  fierce  blow 
It  swings,  and  shivering  with  loud  outcry 
Gives  forth  resounding  thunders  ;    and  the  orbs 
In  their  remotest  rounds  shake  at  their  posts. 


ANTONIUS.  173 

Its  rim  of  rays,  all  shattered  by  the  stroke, 
Fall,  glancing  lightnings,  through  the  darkened 

air. 

Swifter  and  fiercer  fall  the  dreadful  blows, 
Swifter  and  fiercer  flash  the  lightnings  down, 
In  darker  volumes  rolls  his  surging  breath, 
With  deeper  clangor  rolls  the  thunderous  call. 
By  labor  heated,  from  his  hidden  brows 
Fall  steaming  showers,  deluging  the  earth. 
From  every  quarter  rush  the  gods  in  arms, 
Demand  the  cause  of  the  alarm,  and  stand 
In  dread  array  on  cloudy  battlements. 
Teutates  first  advances  to  the  front 
And  shouts  defiance  to  the  frowning  foe  ; 
But  Hesus  laughs,  exulting,  and  stands  forth, 
And  claims  his  right  eternal  to  conduct 
The  fight.    The  yielding  gods  stand  back  in  awe. 
He  rushes  forward  in  mid-air  to  meet 
Mars,  moving  on  apace,  with  roar  defiant. 
And   quickly,  from    their  mouths,  black  clouds 

of  smoke 

Envelop  them,  and  nothing  can  be  seen 
But  awful  surge  of  darkness  overhead, 
And    dazzling    flash    of    blazing    sword    thrusts 

through 

The  rent  concealment;  nothing  can  be  heard 
But  their   commingling  roars,  which  shake  the 

earth, 


174  ANTONIUS. 

The  shock  of  their   orbed   shields   and  armors' 

clash. 
From  north  to  south,  from  east  to  west,  through 

all 

The  hemisphere  the  battle  raged  till  Mars, 
His    crest   shorn    off,    his   great   shield   cleft   in 

twain, 

Retreated  to  the  East,  and  there  held  up, 
In  sign  of  peace,  above  his  drooping  head, 
A  banner  barred  with  seven  colors  bright 
Which  spanned  the  firmament.     The  gods  with 
drew, 

The  darkness  vanished,  and  the  heavens  smiled. 
So,  from  the  mount  of  vision,  I  beheld 
The  war,  and  triumph  of  our  British  gods. 
As  Mars  was  driven  to  his  old  domain, 
So  from  these  western  isles  the  invading  host 
Of  Latin  races  shall  be  driven  back 
To  their  old  fastnesses  and  dreams  of  rule. 

O  Britain,  sea-borne  queen, 

Thou  ruler  of  the  waters, 

Waken  thy  heroes. 

Call  them  with  the  voice  of  thy  waves  ; 

Let  them  show  thy  youths  the  ways  of  fame, 

And  lead  them  in  battle. 

Thy  head  must  not  be  bent  — 

Peerless  among  the  isles  ; 

No  fetters  mark  thy  wrists, 


ANTONIUS.  175 

No  chains  thy  ankles  ; 

Naught  but  thy  sea-foam  diadem 

Shall  e'er  constrain  thee. 

Be  all  thy  goings 

Free  as  thy  breath  of  winds. 


Friends,  ye  have  heard  great  Alpindargo  speak. 
His  words  are  good,  such  as  he  always  utters. 
A  victory  he  promises  if  we 
Propitiate  the  gods.     Shall  we  not  do  it  ? 
But,  said  Caractacus,  we  have  no  captive, 
And  so  no  victim.     How  then   shall  we   make 
Propitiation  ?     Alpindargo  saith, 
Propitiate  the  gods  and  ye  shall  triumph. 
But  Alpindargo  hath  prepared   no  victim  ; 
And  Alpindargo  is  our  holy  chief. 
Without  a  victim  no  propitiation ; 
Without  propitiation  sure  defeat ; 
And  with  defeat  — 

WARRIORS. 

Nay,  nay,  it  shall  not  be. 


Bards,  Druids,  Warriors,  be  it  known  to  you 
That,  harbored  in  this  isle,  a  Roman  captive 
Hath  dwelt  in  safety,  favored  by  the  king, 
By  Alpindargo,  and  the  great  magician. 


176  ANTONIUS. 

WARRIORS. 

Where  is  he  ?     Bring  him  forth. 


Ay,  bring  him  forth. 

EANMOR. 

Yet,  Warriors,  the  king  reproaches  you, 

And  asks  a  victim  for  the  sacrifice. 

Yet,  O  ye  Druids,  Alpindargo  mocks  you, 

And  brings  no  victim  for  the  sacrifice. 

DRUIDS. 

He  shall  not  mock  us. 

WARRIORS. 

Bring  the  captive  forth. 


It  is  well  known  to  you,  O  holy  Druids, 
Who  keep  the  mysteries  of  the  eternal  gods, 
And  are  the  interpreters  of  their  great  wills  ;  — 
Well   known  to  you,  O  learned   and    reverend 

Bards, 
Who    are    the    tongues    of   present    time,    who 

guard 

The  echoing  voices  of  the  years   long  passed ; 
Who  send  the  voice   of  Now  through  years  to 

come, 


ANTONIUS.  177 

And   are   the    judgments,   and   the   mouths  of 

Fame ;  — 

Well  known  to  you,  brave  Warriors,  who  stand 
As  Briton's  cliffs  to  meet  the   assaulting  waves 
Of  enemies,  unshaken,  and  have  heard 
From  year  to  year  the  mighty  deeds  rehearsed 
Which  made  the  glory  of  your  hero-fathers,  — 
This  is  the  day  of  annual  sacrifice. 
Ye  have  been  well  instructed ; — the  Arch-Druid, 
The  holy  Alpindargo,  loves  his  people, 
And  hath  them  well  instructed  ;  —  well  ye  know 
The  oracle  brought  to  us  from  the  gods,  — 

When  this  sacrifice  shall  fail, 
Britons  shall  their  priests  bewail; 

That  if  we  would  propitiate  the  Heavens 
This  offering  must  be  made  ;  that  else,  the  gods 
In  wrath  shall  surely  let  our  foes  prevail. 
Yet  Alpindargo  keeps  the  victim  hid ; 
Yet  King  Caractacus  protects  the  captive. 
Remember  too,  the  great  deliverance 
But  yesterday  wrought  for  us  by  the  gods, 
When,  with  their  misty  steeds,  they  rode  upon 
The  waters,  treading  underfoot  the  ships, 
And  hurling  warriors  to  the  sea's  abyss. 
So  went  the  gods  before,  and  left  for  you 
No  captives,  O  brave  Warriors.     Yet  the  king 
Asks  you  for  captives  ;  chides  you  that  ye  took 

12 


178  ANTONIUS. 

No  captives.     Alpindargo  comes,  O  Druids, 
To  tell  you  what  the  gods  shall  do,  if  you 
Provide  a  victim,  while  he  still  conceals 
The   only  Roman  captive  — 

DRUIDS    AND  WARRIORS. 

Bring  him  forth. 

RANMOR. 

Ye  know,  O  friends,  —  I  speak  thus  but  in  duty  ; 
For  where  religion  and  my  country  calls 
I  were  a  recreant  if  I  failed  to  hear,  — 
A  twofold  recreant  if  I  failed  to  speak,  — 
Ye  know  where  ye  may  find  a  king  to  rule, 
A  priest  to  serve,  but  never  to  deceive  you. 


CARACTACUS. 


Name  thou  the  captive,  O  disloyal  priest. 

RANMOR. 

Forgettest  thou  Salome, 
Perverter  of  religion, 
Conternner  of  the  gods, 
Opposer  of  the  sacrifices  ? 


CARACTACUS. 


Nay,  she  hath  been  long  here 

A  ministrant  in  sorrow  to  our  people, 

And  should  no  more  be  called  a  captive. 


ANTONIUS.  179 

RANMOR. 

She  is  a  captive  of  the  Roman  race  — 
The  gods  demand  her. 

DRUIDS. 

Ay,  the  gods  demand  her. 

BARDS. 

Must  that  flower  fade  ? 
Shall  that  rose-tree  fall 
Filled  with  blossoms  ? 
Must  its  head  be  low? 


What  saith  the  holy  Alpindargo  ?     What 
Our  sacred  chief  who  careth  for  his  people  ? 

ALPINDARGO. 

I  know  thee,  godless  priest. 

I  know  thy  vain  ambition, 

I  know  thy  perjured  faith, 

I  know  thy  spotted  heart. 

Couldst  thou  not  wait  yet  a  few  days  or  months, 

Till,  in  the  natural  progress  of  decay, 

Like  an  o'er-aged  tree,  whose  sappy  founts 

Are  dry,  I  fall  and  leave  a  vacant  place, 

That  thou  shouldst  seek  to  undermine  my  roots, 

And  headlong  hurry  to  transplant  thyself 


180  ANTONIUS. 

To  where  I  stand,  if  so  thy  peers  permit  ? 

Not  veneration  for  the  mighty  gods, 

Not  tenderness  for  thy  endangered  country, 

Ambition  and  revenge  impel  thy  speech. 

I  know  the  impious  purposes 

With  which  thou  didst  pursue  the  captive ; 

How  thou  didst  wither  in  her  scorn, 

Cringe  back  before  her  virtue, 

As  wolves  before  the  face  of  fire  ; 

I  know  thy  subtlety. 

I  know  thy  groveling  thoughts, 

Thy  too  aspiring  pride. 

I  know  thy  vengeful  soul, 

Ay,  recreant  priest,  I  know  thee. 

Stand  back,  for  shame,  blasphemer : 

The  gods  would  not  accept  thy  sacrifice. 

RANMOR. 

Druids,  demand  the  sacrifice. 


The  sacrifice  !  the  sacrifice  ! 
When  this  sacrifice  shall  fail, 
Britons  shall  their  priests  bewail. 

ALPINDARGO. 

Brothers     and    friends,    and     thou,    audacious 
priest, 


ANTONIUS.  181 


I  too  were  recreant  if  any  thing  — 

Ease,  honors,  life  —  could  be  more  dear  to  me 

Than  service  of  the  gods,  and  all   the  rites 

Of  our  religion  ;  and  a  traitor  I, 

Were  mine  own  flesh  and  blood  to  me  more  dear 

Than   my   dear   land.     Ye    know   how  I  have 

loved, 

E'en  as  a  father  loveth  his  own  child, 
This  unprotected  captive,  whose  pure   life 
And  constant  acts  of  noble  charity, 
Though  guided  by  false  faith,  might  shame  us 

all. 

But  now  the  gods  demand  her  at  my  hand, 
And  I  must  not  withhold  her ;  now  our  country 
Requires  her  blood,  I  must  not  hold  it  back. 
Let  her  be  offered  as  the  sacrifice. 


CARACTACUS. 


We  cannot  take  her,  for  Kaliphilus  — 

ALP1NDARGO. 

The  gods  are  stronger  than  Kaliphilus. 


But  he  will  yield  her  ;  he  hath  told  me  so.  • 
Go,  some  of  you,  and  take  her;  bind  her  fast- 


182  ANTONIUS. 

ALPINDARGO. 

Hold!     Lay  no  hand  upon  her  till  the  hour 
Of  sacrifice,  when,  on  the  sunset  tide, 
The  evening  breeze  is  moving  to  the  vales. 
With  reverence  then  attend,  and  bring  her  here, 
Gently  as  shadows  lead  the  Queen  of  Night. 

RANMOR. 

But,  meanwhile,  post  your  guards  that  she  es 
cape  not. 

CARACTACUS. 

Bards,  lift  the  song,  for  heaviness  is  on  me,  • — 
The  song  which  leadeth  forth  the  souls  of  heroes. 


The  ghosts  of  the  silent  years  go  past, 
Their  snowy  robes  are  dim  and  long  ; 

They  whisper  to  us  and  vanish  fast,  — 

They  whisper  to  us  the  words  of  this  song 

The  Northman  came  from  his  hill, 

Bright  was  his  leveled  spear; 
The  sound  of  the  harping  was  still, 

While  his  voice  cried  loud  and  clear,  — 
Gome  every  hawk  from  the  air, 

And  take  for  his  famishing  brood ; 
Come  every  wolf  from  his  lair, 

And  drink  from  the  rivers  of  Hood. 


ANTONIUS.  183 

Then  Casivel  rose  from  his  place, 
At  the  head  of  the  feast  in  his  hall ; 

He  smote  on  his  shield,  and  each  face 
Grew  bright  as  his  men  heard  the  call. 

His  heroes  arose,  as  the  waves  when  the  blows 
Of  the   smiting  wind   fall  on  their   backs  as  it 

goes 

Shouting  defiance  along   the  wide  main, 
And  flinging  destruction  abroad  in  the  plain. 

But  above  them  all,  as  a  lofty  rock 
Above  the  billows  unmoved  by  their  shock, 
The  leader  of  heroes,  great  Casivel,  stood, 
And  his   brow  looked   like  night   in  his  wrath 
ful  mood. 

His  spear  was  like  the  glittering  beam 

Of  the  setting  moon  on  the  ocean's  breast, 

When    the    waves    are    still,    or    the    mountain 

stream 
Has  wooed  them,  singing,  away  to  rest. 

His  buckler  was  like  an  isle  of  the  sea, 
Which  many  a  storm  has  smitten  in  vain ; 

Bare  and  barren,  where  there  may  be 

Naught  but  the  marks  of  the  beating  main. 


184  ANTONIUS. 

He  stood,  a  lofty  tower,  in  whose  shade 
Securely  dwelt  the  widow  and  the  maid. 

Again  the  Northman  called  aloud, 
His  voice  was  stern,  his  words  were  proud,  — 
Crive  me  two  thousand  measures  of  your  grains, 
A    thousand    of   the    beeves    which    graze    your 

plains, 

A  hundred  of  your  maids  most  dutiful, 
Full  fifty  of  your  wives  most  beautiful, 
And  I  will  peacefully  again  return 
Into  my  country ;  else  will  slay  and  burn. 
Or  leave,  to  make  you  wretched,  still  your  lives, 
Bereft  of  homes,  of  children,  and  of  wives. 

When  these  fierce  words  defiant  had  been  heard, 
Each    sword    flashed    fire,     every    bright   spear 

stirred. 

But  all  his  heroes  wait  their  chief's  command, — 
In  silent  anger  frowning  near  him  stand. 

Said  youthful  Carak,  by  the  chieftain  loved 
For  loveliness  in  many  manners  proved,  — 
If  thou  hast  ever   loved  me,   Casivel, 
As  often  I  have  dearly  heard  thee  tell, 
Remain  thou  here,  and  let  me  lead  the  fight. 
Said  Casivel :    Go,  win  thy  fame  by  might. 


ANTONIUS.  185 

Then  Carak  fair  unto  the  Northman  cried, — 
Thou  son  of  snows,  take  back  thy  words  of  pride  ; 
Return  in  shame  into  thy  mountain  lair, 
Or  I  will  drive  thee  hence,  and  hunt  thee  there. 

The  Northman  frowned,  and  up  the  glen 
Came  onward  with  his  wrathful  men. 

So  a  tall  ship  upon  a  wave 

Is  borne.     They  meet  brave  Carak's  ranks. 
Then  many  a  Northman  found  a  grave. 

Like  rushing  Deva,  up  its  banks, 
When  Ocean  meets  it  in  its  track, 
Young  Carak's  ranks  are  driven  back. 

He,  yielding  not,  assails  his  foe. 

As  two  tall  oaks,  when  strong  winds  blow, 

Which  on  the  river's  bank  have  stood 

With  branches  linked,  above  the  flood 

In  conflict  writhe,  the  foes  engage. 

But  Carak  falls  before  the  rage 

Of  the  fell  Northman.     Then  arose 

A  cry,  as  when  the  storm  o'erthrows 

Some  lofty  pine  upon  the  hill : 

It  rose,    then  all  again  was  still. 

But  Casivel,  as  when  the  rage 
Of  great  Taranis  rends  the  rocks 


186  ANTONIUS. 

And  lets  some  torrent  from  its  cage 

By  blows  of  fire  and  roaring  shocks, 
With  loud  outcry  moves  to  the  fight, 
His  golden  hair  streams  rays  of  light. 

Before  his  course  the  foes  give  way : 
So  yields  the  night  before  the  day. 
The  waves,  so  broken,  turn  to  flee 
When  the  fierce  torrent  meets  the  sea. 

The  great  spear  poised,  one  ponderous  thrust 
Rolls  down  the  Northman  in  the  dust; 
His  huge  shield  cleft,  his  lofty  side 
Displays  a  cavern  deep  and  wide. 

Their  chieftain  slain,  his  men  still  fly, 
But,  overtaken,  gasping  lie. 
On  them  the  hawks  long  feed  their  brood, 
The  thirsting  wolves  long  drink  their  blood. 
Their  bones  are   bleached  unburied  there; 
Their  ghosts  there  wander  in  despair. 

A  few,  submissive,  ask  for  life, 

'T  is  granted,  and  so  ends  the  strife. 

O  ' 

The  hero  bids  them  peacefully  retire,  — 
Go  to  their  hills  secure,  and  dread  his  ire. 


ANTONIUS.  187 

Not  with  linked  chains, 

Not  with  whip  and  thong, 

Not  from  captives'  pains 

Briton  shall  be  strong. 

Her  firm  protection  is  not  prison  walls ; 

It  is  her  sons  all  ready  when  she  calls. 

Such  were  thy  fathers'  deeds,  Caractacus  ; 
The  ghosts  of  years  so  whisper  them  to  us. 


Before  a  Cave  hollowed  among  overhanging  Rocks  in 
the  Bank  of  a  deep   Glen. 

SEXTUS  AND  BERNICE.    TORSA  AND  THE  THREE  PIRATES  AT 
A  LITTLE  DISTANCE. 

SEXTU8. 

WHO  is  this  same  accursed  Kaliphilus? 

BERNICE. 

That  recks  not.    Speak  we  of  ourselves ;  we  may 
Assist  each  other. 

SEXTUS. 

Who  art  thou? 

BERNICE. 

A  woman, 

If  fickle  e'er  in  love,  ne'er  in  revenge, 
Who  'd  serve  thee,  if  thou  wilt,  in  turn,  do  her 
A  service. 

SEXTUS. 

How  canst  thou  serve  me? 

BERNICE. 

Were  it  not 
A  service,  should  I  free  thee  ? 


ANTONIUS.  189 

SEXTUS. 

Yea,  the  greatest. 

BEKNICE. 

This  can  I  do,  and  furnish  thee  the  means 
To  find  thy  way  to  Gaul. 

SEXTUS. 

Then  I  for  thee 
Will  do  all  that  man  may. 


Give  me  a  pledge. 

SEXTUS. 

I  '11  pledge  thee  all  I  have,  —  a  soldier's  honor. 


I  must  seem  bold,  for  I  perceive  in  thee 
That  which  will  not  engage  in  plots  ignoble. 
And  that  thou  mayest  know  my  plot  is  fair, 
And  asketh  not  what  honor  may  not  grant, 
I  pray  thee  hear,  and  think  some  other  tells 
Thee  of  myself.     I  love  Kaliphilus  — 
Nay,  peace,  nor  ask  a  woman  why  she  loves, 
Nor  what,  nor  chide  her  for  it.     He  hath  made 
Me  many  promises  which  much  concern 
My  honor. 

SEXTUS. 

And  he  keeps  them  not. 


190  ANTONIUS. 


Nay,  listen  ; 

The  time  is  short.     There  is,  upon  this  isle, 
A  Roman  captive,  who  should  be  a  queen  ; 
Who,  as  a  queen,  rules  in  all  hearts  that  know 
her. 

SEXTOS. 

A  Roman  captive  here:   a  woman  too? 


Who,  in  her  turn,  hath  captured  all  her  captors, 

And  made  them  slaves ;  whose  potent  loveli 
ness 

Kaliphilus  hath  mastered,  bound  in  fetters 

His  will,  led  all  his  powers  beneath  the  yoke, 

Imprisoned  all  his  promises  to  me, 

And  driven  me  out  of  my  citadel 

And  home,  my  trust  in  him,  and  his  strong 
love, 

To  wander  without  succor  in  a  desert. 

He  says  he  loves  her  not ;  would  have  me 
think 

That  he  should  wed  her  for  some  cause  of  state, 

But  not  for  love ;  and  yet  I  know  he  loves  her. 

SEXTUS. 

And  loves  she  him? 


ANTONIUS.  191 


She  will  not  tell  me  so. 

But  still  she  doth  ;  she  could  not  help  but  love 
him. 

SEXTUS. 

What   is   thy  plan  ?     How  can   I  help  thee  in 
it? 

BERNICE. 

I  came  to  bribe  these  men   to  take  her  hence, 
And  leave  her  at  the  nearest  Roman  post. 
I  shudder  now  to  think  I  would  have  placed 
Her  helpless  in  the  power  of  such  fiends. 
But  thou  canst  do  it  safely  if  thou  wilt. 

SEXTUS. 

How  could  we  leave  the  isle  ? 

BERNICE. 

A  ship  awaits 

Kaliphilus,  who,  ere  the  morning  daAvn, 
Would  take  her   hence    to  Gaul.       That    canst 

thou  have. 
And  she  hath  friends  who  would  reward  thee  ; 

for 
She  is  of  noble  birth. 


What  lineage  ? 


192  ANTONIUS. 


The  daughter  of  Herodias  — 


SEXTUS. 

Salome  ! 

BEENICE. 

The  same.     Know'st  thou  — 

SEXTUS. 

I  knew  her  mother  well. 
She  loves  Kaliphilus  ? 

BERMCE. 

Ay,  as  I  think. 

SEXTUS. 

Would  wed  him  ? 

BERNICE. 

'T  is  his  will  ;  he  's  powerful. 

SEXTUS. 

I  '11  do  as   thou  hast  said.     Quick,  loose  these 
thongs. 

BERNICE. 

Not   while   your   guards   are   watchful.       They 

must  sleep. 

I  have  a  drink,  of  potent  bitterness, 
Made  by  the  natives  here,  and  by  them  loved, 
With  which  they  still   the    hoarse  demands  of 

care, 


ANTONIUS.  193 

Take  memory  from  heavy-limbed  fatigue, 
Congeal  the  sluices  of  o'erflowing  sorrow, 
Dissolve  the  spur  upon  ambition's  heel, 
Wash  out  the  boundaries  'twixt  right  and  wrong, 
And  soothe  the  conscience  to  untroubled  sleep. 
This    will    I    bring,  and    give    your    guardians 

here ; 

And  in  it  I  will  mix  a  subtle  drug, 
Which,  quickly  finding  out  the  seat  of  life, 
So  closely  shall  besiege  it  that  no  warden 
Shall  show  himself  to  answer  any  summons. 
Life's  avenues  all   closed,  its  springs  cut  off, 
Its  scarlet  banners  from  the  works  withdrawn, 
The  watchfires  all  put  out,  the  sentinels 
From  all  the  outer  posts  of  sense  recalled, 
Then,    while    this    power,    the    counterfeit    of 

death, 

Holds  silent  sway,  I  will  return  to  thee, 
And  bring  with    me    thy  sword    and    buckler, 

loose, 
And  let  thee  freely  go  to  free  Salome. 


She  loves  Kaliphilus  ?     Thou  knowest  her  well  ? 


BERNICE. 

Yea,  I  may  say  so. 

13 


194  ANTONIUS. 

SEXTUS. 

Hast  thou  heard  her  tell 
Of  one,  mine   own  dear   friend,  —  whom  once 

she  loved, — 
Called  Sextus? 

BERNICE. 

He,  who  's  so  renowned? 

SEXTCS. 

Perchance. 

A  Roman  general  now  —  't  was  long  ago 
She  loved  him. 

BERNICE. 

She  hath  never  spoke  of  him. 

SEXTUS. 

Well  —  get  the  liquor  quick.     But  stay;  come 

back. 
How  came  she  here  ? 

BERNICE. 

I  know  not,  by  some  wind  — 
Some  pirate  chief — 


Begone,  and  set  me  free. 


ANTONIUS.  195 


I  will  prepare  Salome,  bring  her  near 
The  ship.     I  think  she  will  not  hesitate. 
If  need  be,  I  can  say  Kaliphilus 
Requested  that  she  go  before  with  thee. 
I  will  corrupt  his  servant,  Theudas,  so 
He  '11  lend  thee  aid.     And  if  she  obstinate, 
Should  challenge  argument  of  manly  force, 
Say,  wilt  thou  use  it? 


By  the  gods,  I  will ! 


Thou  wilt  not  still  refuse  to  tell  thy  name  ? 
I  may  be  powerful  to  give  thee  thanks. 


Nay,  do  as  thou  hast  said,  and  I  will  owe 
Such  thanks  as  should  be  counted  out  in  drops 
Of  all  my  blood,  each  current  for  a  talent. 
I  pray  thee  haste  and  fetch  the  liquor.    Go  — 
Yet  stay.    Hath  she  grown  old  ?  How  doth  she 
look? 

BERNICE. 

A  deep  and  tranquil  face  reflecting  heaven. 
I  will  return  anon  —  and  —  can  I  trust  thee  ? 


196  ANTONIUS. 


As  thou  wouldst  trust  a  hare  to  flee  the  hounds. 
Do  but  dispatch,  and  set  me  free,  or  else 
This  fever  '11  be  before  thee  in  the  office. 


A  Hill-side. 
ANTONIUS  AND  SALOME. 

ANTONIUS. 

'T  is  now  the  hour  when  gentle  Meditation 
Comes  fondly  to  the  open  arms  of  Nature. 
Now  Phoebus  lays  aside  his  silver  armor, 
And,    wrapped    in    scarlet    robes,    goes    to    his 

slumber. 
So    should    a   blood-stained    warrior    meet    his 

death, 

And  from  it  send  a  glory  to  illume 
The  hoary  summits  of  far  distant  ages, 
The  shining  tops  of  rolling  centuries, 
And  all  the  towers  and  lofty  shafts  of  Fame. 


War  is  a  dreadful  trade  ;  and  Fame  is  bad 
Who  so  entices  men  to  such  a  trade. 
So  leads  the  ignis  fatuus  the  unwary 
To  dark  perdition  in  some  dreadful  moor. 


Thou  speakest  girl-like  ;  so  let  women  think. 


198  ANTONIUS. 

Men    are    for    conflict,    else    the    world    would 

stagnate. 

The  emerald  corselets  of  white  plumM  waves, 
Which  march  in  serried  columns  to  the  shore, 
Are  stained  by  the  last  flight  of  rushing  rays 
From  Phoebus'  quiver  — 

SALOME. 

Yet  they  stagger  on  — 


Like  ranks  of  wounded  demi-gods,  to  die 
In  the  forefront  far  up  the  breached  shore. 
Around  me  in  my  final  hour  I  'd  fold 
A  bloody  mantle,  and  in  growing  storms, 
Before  perturbed  ranks  of  falling  foes, 
Let  my  enthralled  and  stormy  soul  break  forth  — 
What  men  are  they  who  move  upon  the  beach 
Where  foot  to  foot  the  sea  and  land  contend 
For  empire? 

SALOME. 

They  are  some  body  of  the  natives 
Preparing  for  some  warlike  expedition. 

ANTONIUS. 

Methinks  they  seem  to  place  a  guard  along 
The  shore. 


ANTONIUS.  199 

SALOME. 

Nay,  that  is  not  their  wont.     But  say, 
My  father  — 

ANTONIUS. 

What  is  it,  my  girl?   Sit  here 
Upon  my  knee,  as  when  thou  wert  a  child. 


Nay,  let  me  sit  by  thee. 


Fie  !  baby,  fie  ! 

Why,  thou  didst  sit  upon  thy  father's  knee 
When  last  I  saw   thee.      Ah  !  how  thou   didst 

prattle, 
And  pull  thy  mother's  hair. 

SALOME. 

My  mother ! 

ANTONIUS. 

Ay, 

And  try  to  sing  old  songs  thy  nurse  had  taught 

thee. 

Ah  !  kiss  me,  child.     It  seems  but  yesterday. 
And   yet  thou  art  grown   so,  —  thou  art  little 

like 

My  baby  then.     It  seems  to  me  as  if 
My  joy  at  finding  thee  had  made  my  mind 


200  ANTONIUS. 

A  little  weak,  Salome.     I  am  old, 
A  little  over-fond,  and  childish  —  eh  ? 


Nay,  father.  When  joy  melts  the  wintry  bands 
Which  check  the  easy  flowing  of  our  thoughts, 
They  overrun  and  take  strange  currents  oft,  — 
Oft  flow  in  many  diverse,  babbling  streams. 
When  didst  thou  learn  of  my  poor  mother's 
death  ? 

ANTONIUS. 

Why,  girl,  I  saw  her  die. 

SALOME. 

Thou  didst! 

ANTONIUS. 

I     did. 
SALOME. 

And  thou  wert  at  Jerusalem  that  night  ? 

ANTONIUS. 

Ay,  coming  home  to  Rome ;  was  bidden    too 
By  Herod  to  his  feast,  but  would  not  go  — 

SALOME. 

Oh,   speak   not   of  that  feast !     Oh,  spare   me 
that! 


ANTONIUS.  201 

ANTONIUS. 

Thou   art   right,   girl,  —  for    a   night  so    black 

should  be 

By  its  own  horrid  blackness  deep  engulfed, 
And  no  words  e'er  evoke  its  frightful  ghost. 


Thou  knowest  not  what  cause  I  have  to  dread 
And  shudder  at  the  memory  of  that  night. 
Sometime  I  will  unload  my  burdened  heart 
Into  thy  willing  ear. 

ANTONIUS. 

Whene'er  thou  wilt. 

Who  march  with  wild  outcry  of  threatening  war 
Across  the  isle,  from  its  remotest  end  ? 

SALOME. 

They  are  Britons,   just   now  landed  from    the 

shore 
Of  the  great  island. 

ANTONIUS. 

What  betokens  this 
Harsh  sound  of  preparation  ? 

SALOME. 

'T  is  some  feud 


202  ANTONIUS. 

Perchance,  broke  forth  between   the   neighbor 
ing  tribes, 

For  civil  wars  and  contests  are  their  sport. 
My  father,  I  would  ask  —  I  wish  to  know  — 

ANTONIUS. 

Well,  daughter,  what  wouldst  ask  ?  what  wish 
to  know  ? 

SALOME. 

Didst  thou  e'er  see  —  or  hast  thou  ever  heard 
Of  one,  a  youthful  officer  —  a  Roman  — 
Called  Sextus? 

ANTONIUS. 

Did  I  know  him?    Ah,  my  child, 
E'en  as  a  son.     I   know  thy  story,  love. 
He  told  me  all. 

SALOME. 

Where  is  he  now,  my  father  ? 

ANTONIUS. 

Now,  that  I  will  not  tell ;     thou  'It  think  of  him 
And  so  forget  this  fond,  old,  jealous  father. 

SALOME. 

Ah,  I  could  ne'er  do  that.     Oh,  tell  me. 

ANTONIUS. 

Nay, 
Not  till  I  hear  thee  tell  me  of  thyself. 


ANTONIUS.  203 

SALOME. 

But,  is  he  well  ?    I  pray  thee,  tell  me  this. 

ANTONIUS. 

Kiss  me,  my  child. 

SALOME. 

Not  till  thou  answer  me. 

ANTONIUS. 

Yea,  he  is  well ;  at  least  he  was  — 

SALOME. 

He  was! 
But  when? 

ANTONIUS. 

When  last  I  spoke  with  him. 

SALOME. 

O  fie! 

ANTONIUS. 

Thou  hast  not  asked  me  wherefore  I  am  here. 


Because  I  thought  my  father  would  make  known 
All  of  himself  he  wished  his  child  to  know. 

ANTONIUS. 

Right,  girl.     Well,  shall  I  tell  thee  ? 


204  ANTONIUS. 


Pray  thee    do. 

ANTONIUS. 

Three  times  the  morn  hath  drawn    the  veiling 

night 
From  Earth's  fair  face,  and  wakened  her  with 

kisses 

Since,  with  the  general  Plautius,  we  embarked 
From  hither  coast  of  Gaul,  and  gave  ourselves 
To  guidance  of  soft  breezes  from  the  south, 
Which  falsely  promised  us  fair    passage  to 
The  southern  coast  of  Briton,  with  our  army. 
It  was  our  duty  there  again  to  take 
Fresh  pledges  of  allegiance,  and  enlarge 
The  bounds  of  the  Republic,  moved  thereto 
By  Claudius,  the  emperor's,  commands. 
But,  ere  we  reached  the  shining    British  cliffs, 
An  adverse  wind  rushed  from  its  icy  cave,  — 
Beyond  where  Thule  groans  beneath  the  weight 
Of  snows  piled  ceaselessly  by  Winter's  hand,  — 
Sprang  on  our  vessels,  tore  our  sails  away, 
Snatched  all  our  oars,  or  brake  them  in  our  grasp, 
And,    roaring,    drove    us    from    our   wished-for 

course. 

The  seas  grew  angry,  ope'd  a  hundred  mouths, 
And  held  us,  writhing,  in  their  foaming  jaws ; 
Then,  mocking,  spat  us  forth,  again  to  mouth  us. 
While  thus  we  were  their  sport,  the  south-west 

wind 


ANTONIUS.  205 

Came  foaming  on  us  with  an  angry  shriek. 
Then,  'twixt  the  winds  and  the  voracious  seas, 
A  contest  rose  which  made  the  heavens  hide 
Their  faces,  each  contending  for  the  prey, 
Till  we  wrere  torri  in  pieces,  ships  all  broke, 
And  after  swallowed  by  the  snarling  seas. 
Our  company  all  sank  into  their  throats, 
But  me,  who,  senseless  on  the  beach,  was  found 
By  this  Kaliphilus,  who  used  me  well, 
Till,  some  few  hours  gone,  when  he  saw  fit 
To  play  the  traitor,  and  imprison  me. 

SALOME. 

Imprison  thee  ! 

ANTONIUS. 

Yea,  where  thy  Thona  found  me. 


But  wherefore  ? 

ANTONIUS. 

Then  I  could  not  tell;  yet  now 
I  know  it  was  to  keep  me  from  thy  view. 
Now  let  me  know  of  thee.     How  cam'st  thou 

here, 
And    wherefore  ?      Do    I   look   as   thou    hadst 

thought 
Thy  father  should? 

SALOME. 

The  same  in  nobleness  — 


206  ANTONIUS. 

ANTONIUS. 

But  older,  thou  wouldst  say ;    more  scarred,  — 

is  't  not  ? 

Yet  thou  wilt  love  me,  girl ;  thou  shalt  not  help 
But  love  me  ;  I  shall  spoil  thee  so.     Eh,  bird? 
Say  thou  wilt  love  me  ;  promise  me,  or  else 
I  '11  squeeze  this  little  hand  to  half  its  size, 
And   then  't  will    be    so    small   thou   canst   not 

find  it. 

SALOME. 

I  love  thee  now  —  but  tell  me  more  of  Sextus. 
He  is  alive  —  I  long  had  thought  —  or  feared  — 


I  shall  be  jealous !     Tell  me  now  thy  story. 
Our  Sextus  told  me  why  from  him  thou  fledest, 
And  hid  thyself  from  the  long  search  of  love. 
So,  go  thou  on  from  there. 


I  will,  but  briefly. 

I  dared  not  love,  nor  grieve,  nor  hope,  nor  wish ; 
I  only  dared  despair,  and  hid  beneath 
The  ragged  wings  of  wretchedness  ;  and  there 
With  terror  I  remained,  while  darker  grew 
The  dreadful  darkness  round  my  shrinking  soul. 
On  me,  thus  darkened,  shone  life-giving  light  — 
A  hand  divine  uplifted  me  thus  fallen. 


ANTONIUS.  207 

I  lived  again,  as  risen  from  the  dead, 

And  labored  to  forget  all  I  had  loved 

In  that  wrong  former  life  ;    but  chiefly  Sextus, 

For  so  his  love  was  wrought  into  my  love 

That  our  affections  were  but  warp  and  woof 

Of  a  most  bright  and  perfect  web  of  life. 

I  gave  myself  to  charity,  and  lived 

With  the  disciples  at  Jerusalem. 

Thou  knowest  already  that  I  am  a  Christian, 

And  art  not  angry? 

ANTONICS. 

Child,  may  I  not  err  ? 
All  good  ways  lead  unto  Elysium. 


Then  came  the  persecution.     In  the  night 
I  heard  a  voice  which  bade  me  straight  go  forth. 
But  whither  could  I  go  nor  chance  to  meet 
The  imploring  eyes  of  him  so  much  beloved  ? 
How  see,  and  still  resist  his  prayers  and  tears  ? 
While  doubting  thus  again  I  heard  the  voice,  — 
/  came  not  to  destroy,  but  to  fulfill. 
I  came  not  to  uproot,  but  to  engraft. 
Dwarf  not  thyself  by  blighting  any  power, 
Nor  bury  any  talent  in  the  earth ; 
Nor  mutilate  the  fair  proportions  of 
Thy  soul,  as  it  was  formed  by  the  Creator. 


208  ANTONIUS. 

Inaction  is  no  service;  I  demand 

Full  action  of  all  faculties,  controlled 

By  love  for  Me,  so  that  all  things  be  done 

But  for  My  Father's  glory.     All  His  works. 

And  every  part  of  all,  were  by  Him  made. 

The  self-denial,  which  I  ask,  is  not 

Destruction,  but  subordination  ;  not 

Eradication,  but  conformity. 

Next  after  love  for  Me,  My  gospel  asks 

Love  for  a  spouse,  for  children,  parents,  friends. 

And  that  true  love  for  Me  through  love  for  them 

Be  shown.     Easy  My  yoke ;  My  burden  light. 

Thus  freed  from  zealous  ignorance,  no  more 

A   captive    blind,    and    chained,    and    harshly 

driven 

By  self-denials  thwarting  laws  of  God, 
In  nature  written,  sought  I  to  atone 
For  sin,  and  by  no  suffering  self-imposed. 
And  now  I  felt  how  I  had  wronged  my  Sextus, 
By  scourging  him  that  I  might  lash  myself; 
How  easy  in  the  pride  of  humbleness 
To  be  the  minions  of  most  unjust  pride  ; 
And,  with  professed  holy  zeal,  inflict 
Such  wrongs  as  demons  only  should  invent. 
Perceived  how  honestly  man  can  be  wrong, 
And  learned  distrust  of  self;  learned  charity. 
I  wished  to  stay  the  wrong  which  I  had  caused 
To  my  beloved  Sextus  and  myself. 


ANTONIUS.  209 

ANTONIUS. 

Why    didst    thou    not    seek    Sextus,    let    him 
know  — 

SALOME. 

I  went  to  Rome ;  too  late,  for  there  I  heard 
That  Sextus  with  his  forces  was  in  Spain. 
There  patient  duty,  and  impatient  love 
Impelled  me.     Soon  a  goodly  company 
Was  sent  to  him  ;  together  I  set  sail, 
With  letters  of  safe-conduct  from  the  court. 
But  when  we  came  about  the  southern  cape, 
And  would  cast  anchor  in  the  northern  bay, 
A  force  of  British  pirates  took  our  ship, 
And  captives  brought  as  hither.     All  but  me 
Were  burnt  in  sacrifice  to  druid  gods. 

ANTONIUS. 

And  why  wert  thou  not  sacrificed  with  them  * 

SALOME. 

Kaliphilus  had  ta'en  me  from  my  captors 
And  would  not  give  me  up. 

ANTONIUS. 

The  gods  reward  him. 

SALOME. 

Yet  was  I  in  great  danger  ;  for  the  King, 

14 


210  ANTONIUS. 

Caractacus,  beheld    me,  and  at  once 

Would  take  me  from   Kaliphilus,  to  be 

His  own  familiar  slave.     Kaliphilus 

Opposed    him.      Then    the    King,    in    anger, 

swore 

Kaliphilus  should  die.     But  when  he  saw 
That  they  could  not  confine  him  ;  that  no  force 
Of  open  war,   or  subtlety  could  kill, 
They   feared    him    and    desisted  ;  and    thence 
forth 

I  was  as  one  protected  by  their  gods. 
The  druid  chief,  an  old  man  venerable, 
Of  purest  life,  the  almoner  and  steward 
Of  fair  Benevolence,  took  pity  on  me 
And  led  me  to  his  home,  to  his  dear  daughter, 
To  be  her  near  companion.     It  was  she 
Who  brought  thee  to  me  — 

ASTONIUS. 

On  that  distant  shore, 
Where    fast   upon    the  land's  white    breast  the 

waves, 
Like    children    wearied    with     their    play,    all 

come 

To  lay  their  heads  and  nestle  there  to  rest, 
What  company  is  that,  who,  clad  in  robes 
Of  white  and  blue,  are  gathering  trees  in  piles, 
And  look  like  flocks  of  sea-birds  building  nests  ? 


ANTONIUS.  211 

SALOME. 

They  are  British  priests. 

ANTONIUS. 

What  mean  those  woody  heaps  ? 


The  preparation  for  some  festival. 
But  tell  me  now  of  Sextus ;  pain  me  not 
By  longer  silence.     Why  that  troubled  look? 
Thou  said'st   that    he  was  well.     Oh,  tell  me, 
father. 

ANTONIUS. 

I  said  that  he  was  well  when  last  we  talked  — 

SALOME. 

Thou  turn'st  away  thy  face.     What  mean  those 

tears  ? 
Hath  aught  befallen  him  ?     Oh,  lives  he  still  ? 

ANTONIUS. 

My  child,  since  last  I  pressed   his    hand   I  've 

heard 
That  a  most  potent  illness  preyed  on  him  — 


Oh,  let 's  go  to  him.     Where  is  he  ?     Let 's  go. 


212  ANTONIUS. 

ANTONIUS. 

Nay,   daughter,    't  were    too   far    for  thy   poor 
strength. 

SALOME. 

But  I  am  very  strong.     Oh,  let  us  go. 
O  father,  let  me  see  him  ere  he  die. 


ANTONIUS. 


I  fear,  my  love,  he   be  already  dead. 


Say  not  so  ;  —  no,  let  's  go  to  him.    Alas  ! 
We  're  captives,  and  he  knows  it  not !   If  free  — 

ANTONIUS. 

We  could  not  see  him.     He  will  surely  die. 
Come  nearer  to  me,  girl,  and  lean  thy  head 
On  my  old  breast.      Nay,  grieve   not   so,  my 
child. 

SALOME. 

I  know  all  now  —  I  know  that  he  is  dead. 

ANTONIUS. 

Yea,  daughter ;  he  is  in  Elysium. 

SALOME. 

When  was  it  ?     Did  he  speak  of  me  ? 


ANTONIUS.  213 

ANTONIUS. 

Alas! 
I  was  not  by  him. 

SALOME. 

Did  he  love  me  still? 

ANTONIUS. 

Yea,  while  he  lived;  and  only  thee. 


Oh,  say, 
Had  he  forgiven  me  ? 

ANTONIUS. 

He  never  thought 
He  had  aught  to  forgive. 

SALOME. 

Where  did  he  die  ? 

ANTONIUS. 

Raise  now  thy  head,  and  look  upon  the  sea. 
Where  yonder   rock,  like   some    huge  monster, 

lifts 
Its  back  above  the  waves,  his  ship  went  down. 

SALOME. 

Alas,  so  near ! 


214  ANTONIUS. 

ANTONIUS. 

It  was  but  yesterday, 
In   the    great    storm,  when   all   our    fleet    was 

wrecked. 

Ah  me  !     I  know  not  how  to  comfort  thee. 
Weep,  weep  and  moan ;    he  was  worth  all  thy 

tears. 

SALOME. 

The  bitterness  of  my  captivity 

Is  passed.     Though  free  as  clouds,  I  could  not 

find  him, 

Nor  hear  him  speak  the  blessed  words  of  pardon. 
Ah  me !   alas,   his  voice  shall  speak  no  more, 
That  used  to  woo  me  like  the  dove's  complaint ! 

ANTONIUS. 

But  when  he  gave  command  in  battle  it  was 
Like  Jove's,  while  marshaling  the  distant  worlds, 
When   storms  in  whirling  darkness  whelm  the 
heavens. 

SALOME. 

He  spoke  to  me  of  peace,  and  on  his  brow 
The  smiling  sunshine  played. 

ANTONIUS. 

But,  when  he  frowned, 
The  camp  was  hushed  and  suddenly  grew  dark. 


ANTONIUS.  215 


That  he  should  be  so  near  me  but  to  perish, 
Unknowing  both  !   O  Heavenly  Father,  help  me, 
Let  me  not  be  rebellious  ! 


Thou,  ere  long, 

Shalt  wander  with  him  in  the  Elysian  Fields. 
This  life  seems  long,  it  is  so  wearisome, 
But  yet  't  is  short ;  wait  but  a  little  while. 

SALOME. 

Our  souls  were  as  two  echoes,  which  repeat 
Each  other ;    and  of  their  sweet  song  the  rise, 
The  burden,  and  the  cadence  were  but  turns, 
And  varied  melodies  on  themes  of  love, 
Forever  seeking  for  some  new-made  strain 
To  say,  with  deeper  meaning,  how  we  loved. 


His  dear  love  never  waned ;  we  sought  thee  still 
When  Hope  had  grown  all  weary,  and  Despair, 
With  random  steps,  served  us  alone  as  guide. 
'T  is  true,  while  marching  hitherward  through 

Gaul, 

A  soldier,  who  had  long  a  captive  been 
Among  the   German  tribes,  sought  Sextus  out, 
And  gave  a  tablet  travel-stained  and  worn, 


216  ANTONIUS. 

Wliich   bore  a   message   from  tliee  ;    but  't  was 

old, 
And  could  not  tell  nor   when  nor  where  't  was 

writ. 

SALOME. 

What  was  it,  pray  ?   I  have  so  many  sent, 

ANTONIUS. 

I  well  remember  it ;    't  is  transcribed  here  — 
0  Sextus,  I  am  coming  to  thee,  thine. 
Forgive  me  all  thy  wrongs,  and  still  be  mine. 
While  we  loth  live,  united  or  apart, 
Thou  hast  alone,  and  wholly  hast,  my  heart. 


This  knowledge  is  some  comfort ;  kept  he  it  ? 
What  did  he  do? 


ANTONIUS. 

He  wore  it  on  his  heart, 
Embalmed    with    kisses     and     bepearled     with 

tears. 
But  tell  me  more  of  your  young  loves  ;    't  will 

soothe 
And  comfort  thee,  my  child :    it  comforts  me. 


This  is  the  hour  when  we  by  mutual   compact 


ANTONIUS.  217 

Each  on  the  other  thought,  and  so  kept  tryst, 
By  the  assured  meeting  of  our  spirits, 
According  to  the  lover's  powerful  faith. 
And    where    yon    star,    which    now    begins    to 

station 

Upon  the  golden  ramparts  of  the  west 
Its  glittering  ranks  of  spearmen,  takes  its  stand, 
Was,  for  our  eyes,  the  appointed  place  of  meet 
ing. 
Oft    have    I    watched    it    till    its     fires    were 

quenched 

By  the  flood  tide  of  morning  rolling  westward, 
And  tried  to  pierce  its  solid,  silver  portals 
Into  its  treasure-house,  from  mortals  hidden, 
To  read  there  if  he  lived  ;    still  at  this  hour 
Were  thinking  but  of  me  ;    and  still  were  gaz- 

«»gi 

As  I,  upon  that  star,  with  look  more  ardent 
Than  is  its  own,  as  he  would  fascinate  it 
From  its    high  sphere,  and    know    from   it  the 

tidings 

Of  me  ;  and  from  its  keep  take  out  the  message 
Of  love,  which,  night  by  night,  mine  eyes  have 

•placed  there. 

ANTONIUS. 

This  feeding  sorrow  on  remembrance  may 
But  too  much  strengthen  sorrow  till  it  hold 


218  ANTONIUS. 

The  sole  dominion  where  joy  too  should  reign 
With  equal  sceptre.     Let  us  not  forget 
That,  in  this  grief,  we  are  not  all  unhappy. 
For  we  have  found  each  other ;   and  ere  long 
We  shall  find  means  to  quit  this  prisonment. 
The  Emperor  will  surely  send  again 
An  army  to    complete   this  conquest ;    then, 
Set  free,  we  '11  go  to  Rome,  and  there,  as  swal 
lows 

Come  back  to  nests  deserted  in  old  gables, 
When  scowling  winter  yields  to  smiling  spring, 
We  '11  flit  away  a  bright  and  joyous  summer. 
For,  since  I  have   thee,  I  am  young  again  ; 
And  we  shall  have  so  much  to  tell  each  other, 
The  very  birds  themselves  shall  stop  and  listen 
To   our  more    constant  chirping.       Now   good 

e'en. 

Upon  yon  amber  mountain  in  the  East 
The  Evening  'gins  to  place  its  sentinels, 
Whose  burnished  shields  shall  mark  their  sleep 
less  posts 

Throughout  the  night.     Go  thou  within  awhile. 
I  will  approach  to  see  what  make  these  Britons. 


Nay,  come  with  me  ;  thou  art  a  stranger  here. 
If  any  thing  befall  thee  — 


ANTONIUS.  219 

ANTONIUS. 

Timid  dear! 
Fear  nothing,  girl;  I  will  be  cautious  —  go. 

SALOME. 

And  thou  wilt  soon  come  back  ? 

ANTONIUS. 

Ay,  soon,  my  child. 
By  naught  but  thee  can  I  be  now  beguiled. 

[Exit  SALOME. 

Now   will    I   know    what   mean   these    British 

thieves, 

Who  for  an  hour  have  lurked  about  the  wood, 
Thinking  themselves  unseen.  Whate'er  they  be, 
I  am  no  soldier  if  they  purpose  good 
To  me  or  mine  —  how  precious  is  that  mine ! 
Till  now  unknown  by  me.     Kaliphilus 
Is  but  a  traitor.     I  would  sooner  trust 
These  savages.       Mercurius  be  my  guide. 
Unsafe  I  go  ;    but  more  unsafe  abide. 


Near  the  Sea-shore. 

BERNICE  AND  SEXTUS. 

BERKICE. 

WITHIN  that  thicket  thou  wilt  find  thine  arms. 
There  must   thou    hide   thyself.     I  've   tried  in 

vain 

To  win  his  servant,  Theudas,  to  our  plot ; 
He  threatened  to  report  it  to  his  master, 
But  that  I  fear  not.     Now  the  ship  is  ready ; 
And,  with  my  help,  once  here  she  must  aboard. 
The  wind  is  fair,  and  —  canst  thou  find  thy  way 
To  Gaul? 

SEXTUS. 

Ay,  never  fear. 


Or  where   thou  wilt ; 

I  care  not  whither,  so  it  be  from  here. 

i 

SEXTOS. 

But    will  she  come  ?     The  night  already  marks 
The    hour    when    trembling    Weariness    woos 
Slumber, 


ANTONIUS.  221 

Who,  smiling,  opes  her  arms,  and  softly  draws 
His  drooping  head  upon  her  dream-veiled  bosom, 
And  gentle-fingered  Dian  gilds  their  rest. 


Yea,  she  will  come.     I  charged  her  dear-loved 

friend, 

The  maiden  Thona,  who  knows  well  this  spot, 
To  tell  her  that  a  shipwrecked  soldier  here 
Demanded  instant  aid ;    with  such  enticement 
She  '11  surely  come.     She  never  yet  refused 
Such  kindly  offices  by  night  or  day, 
In  sun's  heat,  or  in  tempest. 


If  she  bring 
Kaliphilus  with  her  — 

BEKNICE. 

Oh,  fear  it  not ; 
She  cannot ;   he  prepares  for  his  departure. 

SEXTUS. 

Yet,  if  she  love  him  — 


If!     I  know  it  now. 
Within  this  half  hour,  as  I  hither  came, 


222  ANTONIUS. 

I  skirted  by  the  wood  upon  the  hill, 
That  none  might  see  me.     There  beheld  I  her 
With  him  in  close  and  loving  converse,  such 
As  Love  delights  in  when  the  blushing  Eve 
Is  won  by  the  on-coming,  eager  Night. 

8EXTVS. 

But  art  thou  sure  't  was  he  ? 

BERNICE. 

'Tis  true  the  veil 

Of  evening  fell  somewhat  upon  them  both. 
Yet  saw  I  well  it  was  his  manly  form  ; 
And,  at  this  hour,  no  man,  but  him,  is  here. 

8EXTUS. 

O  love  I     'Tis  past  belief! 


'T  is  strange,  indeed. 
I  saw  his  arm  bent  lovingly  about  her, 
Her  head  was  resting  happy  on  his  breast. 
I  saw  them  kiss  — 


O  Furies! 

BERNICE. 

Thou  art  moved. 


ANTONIUS.  223 

SEXTUS. 

I  so  detest  him  I  would  have  none  love  him. 
Did'st  thou  hear  aught  ? 


I  could  not,  till  he  rose 

To  leave  her  for  a  while,  and  then  she  said 
In  plaintive  accents,  as  of  one  who  'd  wept, 
In  tones  of  love,  which  make  such  partings 

seem 
O'erfull  of  woe  :  And  thou  wilt  soon  come  back  ? 

SEXTUS. 

And  what  said  he? 


I  could  not  stay  to  hear, 
Lest  I  should  be  discovered,  and  delay 
Make  our  fair  plot  miscarry.     Some  one  comes. 


I  '11  leave  her  here.     I  will  not  take  her  hence. 


But  thou  art  pledged. 

SEXTUS. 

Gods  !  —  I  '11  redeem  my  pledge. 

Enter  THONA. 


224  ANTONIUS. 

THONA. 

Bernice,  O  Bernice,  help  !    O  help ! 

BERNICE. 

What  is  it? 

THONA. 

Oh,  they  've  taken  away  Salome. 

SEXTUS. 

Who!   What! 

THONA. 

They  've  taken  away  Salome. 

BEUNICE. 

Who? 

THONA. 

The  priests.     Oh,  where  's  Kaliphilus  ? 

SEXTUS. 

The  priests ! 

THONA. 

They  've  taken  her  away.     Alas,    alas  ! 

SEXTUS. 

When  did  they  take  her?    Whither?   Why? 


Ah,  me ! 

They  '11  sacrifice  her.     Where  's  Kaliphilus  ? 
He  'd  save  her. 


ANTONIUS.  225 

BERNICE. 

Stay  thy  weeping,  let  us  know, 
In  order,  what  has  happened. 


Oh,  she 's  gone  I 

I  had  just  told  her  that  a  soldier  here 
Her  aid  demanded ;    we  were  setting  forth, 
When,  suddenly,  a  priest  and  band  of  warriors 
As  't  were,  sprang  from  the  ground  and  seized 
her. 

SEXTUS. 

Fiends ! 

THONA. 

They  stopped  her  mouth  — 


-  O  villains. 

THONA. 

Bound  her  fast, 
And  quickly  bore  her  thence. 

SEXTUS. 

But  whither? 

THONA. 

Ahl 

I  know  not.     Save,  O  save  her,  sir. 

15 


226  ANTONIUS. 

SEXTUS. 

I  will. 

THONA. 

Alas  I    Thou  canst  not.     Oh,  I  know  too  well  — 

SEXTUS. 

But  we  must  find  her.      Come,  point   out  the 

way. 
I  '11  save  her,  or  with  men  no  longer  stay. 


A  Sacred  Grove  near  the  Sea-shore. 

CARACTACUS,    ALPINDARGO,     RANMOR,    KALIPHILUS,    ULLIN, 
OKLA,  THEUDAS,  SALOME,  DRUIDS,  BARDS,  AND  WARRIORS. 

DRUIDS. 

TERRIBLE  are  the  gods  when  they  rise  in  their 
anger. 

Then  the  heavens  sink  ;  they  roll  blackly  to 
gether  ; 

Then  the  forests  bow,  and  rend  off  their  dark 
garments ; 

Then  in  mists  earth  hides  her  tear-covered 
visage  ; 

Then  the  isles  faint  and  lie  hid  under  waters ; 

Then  the  dark  sea  grows  pale  while  it  trembles. 

ARCH  DRUIDS. 

Shall  man 

Of  feeble  hand, 

Who  cannot  stay  the  waves, 

Nor  call  the  islands  from  the  deep, 

Nor  lift  the  veil  from  off  the  earth's  sad   face, 

Nor  raise  the  bent  and  sobbing  forests, 

Nor  still  the  rolling  heavens, 

Withstand  the  gods 

Alone  ? 


228  ANTONIUS. 


Come,  now,  let  us,  too,  bow, 
Let  us  appease    their  wrath, 
Let  us  propitiate  their  favor. 
Then  we,  victorious, 
Shall  teach  insulting  foes 
How  vainly  they  defy  our  gods. 

ARCH  DRUIDS. 

The  altar  is  prepared  ;  come  near, 
And,  ere  the  sacrifice  is  made, 

Call,  so  that  all  the  gods  may  hear 
And  lend  us  their  resistless  aid. 


Be  thanked,  ye  gods,  and  honored. 

When  ye  came    riding    forth  on   fire-breathing 

clouds 

We  all  stood  up  to  praise  ye. 
When,  with  tornadoes  in  your  hands 
Ye  swept  the  stranger's  vessels  from  the  sea, 
We  shouted  to  your  glory,  and  our  bards  sang 

hymns. 

In  your  great  wrath  we  trusted  and  rejoiced. 
Now  let  our  thanks  come  to  you, 
Like  sweetest  song   of  bards  when   feasts   are 

spread. 
Be  thanked,  ye  gods,  and  honored. 


ANTONIUS.  229 


ALPINDARGO. 

Waken  !  O  gods,  awake ! 
Come  from  the   cloudy  chase, 
Rise  from  the  feast  of  shells. 


Accept  our  sacrifice, 
And  help  us. 

ALPINDARGO. 

Jow,  who  keepest  the  winds 

In  thy  blue  dwelling  nailed  with  stars, 

Smite  our  foes  with  blasts. 

DRUIDS. 

Accept  our  sacrifice, 
And  help  us. 

ALPESDARGO. 

Bel,  thou  father  of  days, 
Come  on  thy  car  of  fire, 
Burn  our  foes  before  us. 

DRUIDS. 

Accept  our  sacrifice, 
And  help  us. 

ALPINDAHGO. 

Hesus,  with  hands  dripping  blood, 
Come  with  the  wailing  of  storms, 
Tear  in  pieces  our  foes. 


230  ANTONIUS. 

DRUIDS. 

Accept  our  sacrifice, 
And  help  us. 

ALPINDARGO. 

Thou,  Taranis,  who  ridest 
Trampling  the  wreck  of  the  heavens, 
Shake  our  foes  with  thy  voice. 

DRUIDS. 

Accept  our  sacrifice, 
And  help  us. 

ALPIND  AROO. 

Thou,  Teutates,  who  knowest 
Ways  to  beguile  and  seduce, 
Lead  our  foes  from  their  course. 

DRUIDS. 

Accept  our  sacrifice, 
And  help  us. 

ARCH  DRUIDS. 

Our  victim  is  a  chosen  one, 
Most  comely;  of  the  hated  race 
Of  our  great  enemies  —  a  maiden. 
She  should  be  pleasing  to  ye  gods. 
She  is  the  best  we  have, 
So  take  her  dearly  from  us. 


ANTONIUS.  231 

ALPINDARGO. 

Oh,  she  is  dear  to  me  as  mine  own  blood, 
More  dear  to  me  than  life.     Hear  me,  ye  gods : 
Oh,  let  this  worthy  sacrifice  prevail 
To  save  this  people,  and  preserve  these  rites. 
My  child,  it  is  not  man  —  the  gods  demand  thee. 


God,  the  Lord  Omnipotent,  reigneth : 
His  justice  cannot  err.     His  will  be  done. 

CAKACTACUS. 

I  will  have  thine,  if  e'er  I  change  religions : 


Hear  me,  O  Druids.     Priests,  abstain  awhile. 
Ye  know  that,  in  the  measure  of  the  gods, 
Man  equals  man  ;  the  proudest  head,  for  them, 
Hath  not  a  greater  price   than  lowliest 
When  placed  upon  their  altar.     What  most  dear 
To  suppliants  is  dearest  unto  them. 
As  in  the  suppliant's  estimation  named 
They  value  it.     Ah!  were  it  otherwise, 
Did  they  regard  the  victim's  worth  alone, 
As  balanced  in  the  human  scale  of  worth, 
Or  their  calm  eyes  rejoice  in  woman's  beauty 
The  captive  standing  at  the  altar  here 
Should  be  to  them  the  dearest  sacrifice. 


232  ANTONIUS. 

But  we  shall  presently  be  in  great  need. 
The  stranger's  ships  shall  smite  again  our  shore, 
And  Briton's  heroes  vainly  fall,  unless 
The  gods  shall  help  us.     Let  us  then  prevail 
By  offering  something   dearer  to  ourselves 
Than  this  poor  captive.     Since  naught  is  more 

dear 

Unto  ourselves  than  our  own  selves,  behold ! 
I  claim  the  right  to  immolate  myself. 

ALL. 

Thou! 

ALPINDARGO. 

O  my  son  !  my  son ! 


Nay,  Ullin,  nay  — 


I  will  not  say  that  none  is  here  more  dear 
Than  I ;  nor  boast  how  dearly  I  am  held ; 
Yet  were  ungrateful  —  nay,  I  were  most  false, 
If,  with  immodest  show  of  modesty, 
I  should  deny*  your  truth,  and  name  myself 
Unloved.     Not  few,  nor   poor  your  proofs  of 

love, 

As  due  to  your  loved  chieftain's  only  son. 
And  thou,   O  chief,  my  father,  grudge  me  not 


ANTONIUS.  233 

If  I  devote  myself  to  save  this  people. 

Ye  heard  his  cry  of  agony;   ye  see 

His  silent  tears ;  ye  know  his  strength  of  heart. 

Judge  then,  O  Druids,  if  I  be  not  dear, 

And  let  me  win  immortal  fame  this  night, 

While,  as  a  hero,   with  my  life  I  save 

That  of  my  country  and  of  those  I  love. 


Thou  art  most  generous,  noble  Ullin ;   yet 
Bethink  thee  of  the  precepts  thou  hast  heard, 
And  so  do  not  this  wrong  to  thee  and  thine. 


Now,  let  this  captive  maiden  go  in  peace, 
And  grant  my  prayer ;    it  is  an  ancient  right. 
Advance,  and  do  on  me  your  office,  priests. 


There  is  an  ancient  law,  long  since  forgot, 
While  lying  hidden  in  old  druid  lore, 
Unneeded  and  unused.     This  law  declares 
The  chosen  victim  shall  be  of  the  race 
Of  our  most  imminent  foes ;  and  it  forbids 
Self-immolation  at  this  holy  feast, 
Or  victim  chosen  from  another  race. 
The  holy  Alpindargo  knows  the  law. 


234  ANTONIUS. 

ALFINDARGO. 

Most  true  —  I  had  forgot  —  these  heavy  years  — 
My  son,  it  must  not  be. 

ULfJN. 

O  cruel  priest. 

RANMOR. 

But  if,  O  pious  youth,  thou  needs  must  die 
To  serve  thy  country,  thou  shalt  have  occasion : 
Leave  but  thy  harp,  and  lift  the  spear  in  battle  ; 
There  immolate  thyself,  if  so  thou  wilt. 

KALJPHILUS. 

O  Druids,  Bards,  and  Warriors,  let  me  speak. 


The  great  magician  !     Listen. 

ALPINDARGO. 

We  attend. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Well  hath  wise  Ranmor  counseled  you.     This 

law 
Should    now    prevail  ;    and    this    brave    youth 

should  live. 

RANMOR. 

Ye  hear,  ye  hear :  he  speaketh  like  a  god ! 


ANTONIUS.  235 


ULLIN. 

But  tliou  did'st  tell  me  — 


KALIPHILUS. 

True  ;  I  told  thee  so. 

If  one  who  loved  her  truly  could  be  found, 
And  he  would  give  himself  to  die  for  her 
That  she  should  live. 


Here  1  so  give  myself. 

KALIPHILUS. 

And  she  shall  live.     For  know  the  potency 
Of  offerings,  fond  youth,  is  in  the  intent, 
Not  in  the  acceptance  ;  and  in  thine  intent 
Thou  art  offered.    Thou  shalt  live.     Hear,  holy 

men, 

If  I  produce  a  captive  warrior, 
One  great  in  power,  as  in  name ;  whose  sword 
Shall  else,  a  treacherous  bale-fire,  lead  to  wreck 
A  fleet  of  British  souls  now  sailing  fair 
On  life's  night-bounded  sea ;  a  Roman  too, 
Will  ye  this    maiden  captive  grant  me  freely  ? 


It  shall  not  be  — 


236  ANTONIUS. 

ALPINDAKGO. 

He  speaketli  like  a  god ! 
It  shall  be  so;  ay,  vengeful  priest,  it  shall. 


Good.     Let  it  be  so.    Lead  thy  warrior  hither. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Now,  Theudas,  bid  them  bring  their  prisoner. 

[Exit  THEUDAS. 

KALIPHILUS. 

So  all  goes  well ;  and  by  this  subtle  strife 
I  '11  lose  a  rival  and  will  gain  a  wife. 

Enter  THEUDAS  with  armed  men,  leading  in  ANTONIUS  bound. 

SALOME. 

My  father ! 

KALIPHILUS. 

Yea,  my  fair   one  ;  none  but  he. 

ANTONIUS. 

What,  daughter !  here  in  chains  !  What  meaneth 
this? 

SALOME. 

Kaliphilus,  how  couldst  thou  so  betray ! 

KALIPHILUS. 

To  win  thee. 


ANTONIUS.  237 

ANTONIUS. 

Perjured  host,  false  prophet,  knave, 
Thou  traitor;  was  it  not  enough  for  thee 
To  so  beguile  the  father. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

SALOME. 

Kaliphilus,  O  save  him.     Save  my  father  I 

ANTONIUS. 

What  would  they  with  thee  here,  my  child? 


SALOME. 

Behold 
The  altar. 

ANTONIUS. 

No  !     It  cannot  be  !     Forbid, 
Ye  mighty  gods.     Break,  fetters,  break,  or  else 
The  opposeless  rage  in  me  will  burst  its  bounds, 
And  I  a  helpless  ruin  topple  down. 
They  shall  not  do  it. 

SALOME. 

Thou,  alas !  art  here 
To  take  my  place. 


238  ANTONIUS. 


ANTONIUS. 


Ay,  that  I  will,  my  girl. 

Since  these  bloodthirsty  villains  must  taste  blood, 
Let  mine  suffice.  The  flood  throbs  in  thy  veins ; 
My  currents  ebb  e'en  at  their  fountain  head. 


O  Heavenly  Father,  help  — 

KALIPHILUS. 

He  cannot  do  it. 
I,  I  alone,  can  save  thy  father. 


Thou! 

And  wilt  not  ?    O  Kaliphilus,  have  pity. 
See  his  gray  hairs.     O  save  him ! 

ANTONIUS. 

Hush !  my  child. 

If  one  of  us  must  die  't  is  I.     Alas ! 
But    e'en    this   morn    and   death   had   met   me 

glad 

For  the  encounter :   I  was  childless  then. 
This  new,  too  late  found  happiness,  is  yet 
A  smiling  infant,  still  too  young  to  know 
How  sweet  its  own    existence.      Must  I  leave 

thee  ? 


ANTONIUS.  239 

ALPINDARGO. 

Magician,  lo !  our  rites  are  all  delayed. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Go,  Theudas,  to  the  glen  where  shadows  sleep 
The  livelong  clay ;  thou  'It  find  in  savage  guard 
A  Roman  ;  bring  him  hither  bound.     But  keep 
Him  from  our  sight  until  I  bid  him  here. 

[Exit  THEUDAS. 

ANTONIUS. 

To  let  thee  die  were  kindness.    Leave  thee  here 
With  this  vile  knave !  —  Gods,  have  ye  yet  in 

store 

Pains  bitterer ;  more  cruel  mockeries  ? 
O  Fates  implacable,  not  yet  appeased  ? 
But  ye  are  stronger  than  a  poor  old  man, 
Who  still  would  struggle  underneath  the  weight 
Of  your  great  curses,  so  to  save  his  child, 
And  challenge  still  your  great  resistless  wills 
To  heap  mount  upon  mount,  until  at  length 
Beneath  great  Alpine  ranges  he  be  crushed  — 
As  I  am  now  —  I  can  resist  no  more. 

ALPINDARGO. 

Kaliphilus,  take  thou  the  maiden  hence; 

She  may  not  see  what  follows  :  take  her  hence. 

[SALOME  is  unbound  and  set  free. 


240  ANTONIUS. 

SALOME. 

Nay,  set  my  father  free.     Kaliphilus, 
Wilt  thou  do   naught  for  me  ?  and   thou   hast 
said  — 

KALIPHILUS. 

What  have  I  said?     Speak  out. 

SALOME. 

O  save  him  !  save  him ! 

[Priests  approach  and  lay  hands  on  ANTONIUS. 

ANTONIUS. 

Farewell,  my  child.     Come   here,  embrace  me 

once  — 
The  good  gods  help  thee,  daughter.     Fare  thee 

well. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Salome,  thou  art  mine.     I  've  ransomed  thee, 
I  've  bought   thee,  paid   for   thee  the  old   man 

there. 
Yet,   though   thou   art   mine   own,   my  captive 

slave, 

I  still  would  treat  thee  as  my  ruling  queen, 
And  hear  thy  full  consent  to  be  mine  own. 


It  cannot  be. 

ANTONIUS,  looking  back  as  he  is  led  toward  the  altar. 

Right,  girl ;  no  —  never,  never. 


ANTONIUS.  241 

KALIPHILUS. 

Then  be  thy  father's  murderer,  if  thou  wilt, 
Ay,  and  my  wife  unwedded.     Thou  art  mine. 

SALOME. 

O  chief,  good  Alpindargo,  help  me  now. 
This  is  my  father;  I  his  daughter  am. 
O  save  him  ;  send  him  hence.    O  slay  him  not ; 
A  father  should  not  die  to  save  his  child. 
'T  is  fit  the  child  should  save  the  father's  life. 
Do  as  thou  had'st  determined:  let  me  die. 
Thou  had'st  a  father ;  think  thou  hast  him  still. 
As  thou  would'st  save  him  so  let  me  save  mine. 
O  Alpindargo,  O  good  priest,  O  help  me ! 

ALPINDARGO. 

Alas !  my  child,  who  can  direct  the  gods, 
Or  change  their  stern  decrees?    I  cannot  help 
thee. 

KALIPHILUS. 

But  I  can  help  thee  —  stern  decrees  of  gods ! 

The  gods  prefer  a  warrior  to  a  girl, 

A  youthful  warrior  to  one  weak  with  age. 

A  youthful  warrior  can  I  yet  provide, 

And  save  Salome,  and  her  father  too, 

If  she  will  here  consent  to  be  my  wife. 

16 


242  ANTONIUS. 

ALPLNDARGO. 

And  canst  thou  hesitate,  my  child  ? 


Alas! 
O  Heaven,  help  me  !     Save  him  —  I  am  thine. 


KALIPHILUS. 


Give  me  thy  hand,  then.     Come  into  my  arms. 

Enter  SEXTUS,  followed  by  BERNICE  and  THONA  ;  they  stand 
unseen.  SALOME  gives  her  hand  to  KALIPHILUS,  who  draws 
her  into  his  arms. 


KALIPHILUS. 

Rest  here  upon  my  breast.    Say  thou  art  mine. 

SALOME. 

Yea,  I  am  thine  — 


BERNICE  to  SEXTUS. 

I  told  thee  so. 

SEXTUS,  coming  forward. 

O  gods ! 
So  thou  art  his  ?     Thine  own  words  so  declare  ? 

SALOME. 

Ah!  Sextus! 


ANTONIUS.  243 


KALIPHILUS. 


In  good  time.     Arrest  him  there. 
Confess  my  power ;  I  said  I  would  produce  him. 


I  would  believe  no  other — wherefore  thee  ? 
But  't  is  a  vicious  habit  I  have  learned. 
O  thou  multiplicate  and  compound  lie, 
Thou  living  falsehood,  thou  duplicity, 
Quintessence  of  all  guile  ;  thou  clinging  lie, 
Thou  lie  Briarean,  each  separate  hand 
Of  all  thy  hundred  is  a  complex  lie, 
The  pressure  of  each  separate  finger  lies, 
Thy  friend-like  grasp  a  volume  is  of  lies, 
Thou  art  thyself  a  library  of  lies  — 

SALOME. 

O  spare  me,  Sextus. 


Here  's  thy  written  pledge 
0  Sextus,  I  am  coming  to  thee,  thine. 
Forgive  me  all  thy  wrongs,  and  still  be  mine. 
While  we  both  live,  united  or  apart, 
Thou  hast  alone,  and  wholly  hast,  my  heart. 

SALOME. 

O  Sextus,  it  was  true,  —  is  true,  is  true. 


244  ANTONIUS. 

SEXTUS. 

What !  spring  they  still  fresh  hatched  from  thee  ? 

Now  ?  here  ? 

Thou  art  a  wilderness  wherein  they  dwell, 
In  wild  bloom  rank,  and  fragrant  beauty  rich. 
They  ooze  from  every  pore,   creep  from  thine 

eyes, 

Coil  in  thy  throat,  glide  from  thine  opening  lips, 
And  wriggle  in  the  smile  about  thy  mouth. 

SALOME. 

Ah  me  !  alas !  O  hear  me,  Sextus  —  hear  me. 

SEXTUS. 

Yet  veil'st  thou  them  with  such  a  dear  outside 
Thou  art  taken  by  thy  lovers  all  for  truth ; 
Yet  art  to  each  of  them  a  different  shape 
By  thyself  multiplied.     Thine  angel-form, 
Oh,  it  would  win  with  its  sweet  looks  of  sooth 
Great  Jove  to  give  Olympus  to  thy  care, 
And  be  a  humble  suitor  at  thy  court. 
The  fiends  of  hell  shrink  from  thee,  envious, 
And  curse  thee  that  thou  so  excell'st  their  art  : 
Thou   Hydra-headed   lie,  I   curse  thee  —  curse 
thee. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Arrest  him  there.     What,  ho  ! 


ANTONIUS.  245 

SEXTOS. 

Nay,  stand  ye  back, 

For  madness  will  have  scope,  and  I  am  mad. 
Stand   back !   here   dangers   spring.      Give   me 

this  form. 

'[Snatches  SALOME,  who  has  fainted,  from  KALIPHILUS. 

Dead?  dead?  No  breath;  no  pressure  in  thy 
hand  ? 

All  still  ?  The  light  gone  out  in  these  sweet  orbs  ? 

Then  is  the  world  all  dark,  earth  paralyzed, 

The  breezes  all  grown  stiff,  the  rigid  air 

Is  mute,  its  starry  eyes  are  fixed  with  grief. 

No  word,  my  love,  my  child  ?  No  more  fare 
wells  ? 

My  burning  kiss  cannot  relight  these  lamps  ? 

Apollo,  bring  back  day  unto  the  world. 

Ah,  Sextus,  it  is  time  for  thee  to  go, 

The  damps  of  night  shall  give  thee  chills  and 
woe  ! 

KALIPHILUS. 

Now  would  he  gladly  die  while  he  believes 
She  loves  him  not ;  so  let  him  live  until, 
From  her  own  lips,  he  know  himself  beloved, 
Then  shall  he  taste  the  bitterness  of  death. 

[AsrroNius  breaking  away  from  the  priests,  by  whom  he 
has  been  surrounded  and  concealed. 

Away!  give  place.     I  tell  ye  I  will  see 


246  ANTONIUS. 

Who  so  usurps  the  accents  of  my  Sextus, 
Whose  grief  so  sounds  in  unison  with  mine 

SEXTUS. 

Antonius !  come  back  to  chide  me  — 


Sextus  ! 

SEXTUS. 

Art  thou  alive  ?  then  stand  thou  farther  off, 
Wouldest  thou  not  die ;  for  here  's  a  sight  to  blast 
Thy  vision,  burn,  e'en  at  its  fount,  thy  blood, 
And  dry  up  all  the  sources  of  thy  life  ? 
Thy  daughter  lies   here   dead.     'T  was   I   who 
killed  her. 

ANTONIUS. 

'T  is  better  thus.    She  would  have  lived  the  wife 
Of  this  black  devil,  who  'd  make  her  his  by  force. 
The  virtue  of  old  Rome  still  lives  in  thee. 
I,  like  Virginius,  had  done  the  deed, 
But  that  these  coward  villains  held  me  bound. 
We  now  have  nothing  more  to  do,  but  die 
As  Romans.     She  was  dear — but —  be  a  man. 


Now  look  you,  see  that  brow,  how  fair,  —  that 
mouth ; 


ANTONIUS.  2-17 

Yet  falsehood  played  upon  those  archM  lips 
As  poisoned  air  upon  a  lute's  soft  strings, 
And  made  the  sweetest  music.     Woe  to  him 
Who  breathed  those   sounds  enchanting — woe 
to  me ! 

ANTONIUS. 

He  's  mad. 

SEXTUS. 

Yet  one  last  kiss,  O  sweetly  false. 


O  Sextus. 

SEXTUS. 

Hush  !  she  speaks.     She  lives !   she  lives ! 

SALOME. 

O  Sextus,  Sextus,  art  thou  come  at  last? 


Would  to  the  gods  I  were  not  come,  to  find 
Thee  false,  myself  deceived  —  deceived  by  thee. 
Had  the   great  heavens  above  me  disappeared  ; 
At  glaring  mid-day,  from  its  middle  course, 
The  sun  fell  hissing  in  the  ocean's  midst, 
Set  it  aflame,  and  burned  it  to  dry  land  ; 
The  wild  hills  run  away,  with  panic  stricken ; 
The  mountains  fled  into  the  darksome  north ; 
Had  all  the  rivers  to  their  sources  rushed, 


248  ANTONIUS. 

And    crept   back    shuddering  to    the   womb  of 

Earth, 

I  could  have  witnessed  it  unscathed,  and  said, 
This,  this  is  possible.      But  thou  —  by  thee  — 
By  thee  deceived,  betrayed,  and  all  my  faith, 
My  universe  of  love,  grown  great  and  strong, 
Thus  overwhelmed  —  it  cannot  be  —  what  is  ? 
My  senses  play  me  false,  my  reason  cries 
Loud  falsehoods,  and  my  memory  is  a  liar. 
I  'm  false  unto  myself,  and  every  part 
Betrays  the  other.     Whither  shall  I  go 
For  truth  ?  Where  find  a  real  world  ?   Whom 

trust  ? 

Now  let  the  great  orbs  melt  away  in  mists, 
And  every  thing  be  night ;   the  darkling  earth 
Be  changed,  and  I  in  it  dissolve  and  cease.  — 
Gods  !    but  there  is  no  earth,  nor  sky,  nor  orbs. 
I  'm  from  a  troublous  dream  unduly  waked, 
To  find  myself  unreal — a  dreaming  dream. 
Thy  truth  unreal,  the  realest  of  all  things. 
Then  all  things  are  unreal,  and  I  but  hope 
To  awaken  to  unreal  unconsciousness. 

ANTONIUS. 

Nay,  Sextus,  wrong  her  not ;  she  loved  but  thee. 

SALOME. 

Oh,  always,  Sextus. 


ANTONIUS.  249 

SEXTUS. 

Hold,  hold,  mock  me  not. 
I  heard  her  pledge  herself  to  him. 

SALOME. 

Alas! 

ANTONIUS. 

It  was  to  save  my  life.     She  thought  thee  dead. 
I  told  her  so. 

SALOME. 

Oh,  I  have  loved  but  thee.  — 
Have  sought  thee.     O  forgive  me  —  can'st  thou, 

Sextus, 

All  this  long  misery?     I  thought  to  do 
But  what  was  right — 


O  changing  dream,  avaunt! 
How  many  phantoms  take  their  place  in  thee, 
And  sway  me  to  their  will.      Nay,  pardon  me 
My  hot  fierce  words,  my  curses,  born  of  love 
Struck  by  the  rasping  flint  of  jealousy. 
I  have  been  played  upon,  deceived,  alas  ! 
The  time  sufficeth  not  to  tell  thee  how  — 

SALOME. 

I  knew  thou  wert  abused.     'Tis  well  at  last. 


250  ANTONIUS. 


Now  softly,  Sextus.     It  is  plain    we  die. 
We  're  in  the  power  of  these  wild  demons  here. 
Salome  must  go  with  us  ;    else  she  lives 
The  slave  of  this  accursed  Kaliphilus. 
Lend  me  thy  sword. 

Takes  the  sword,  and  is  about  to  stab  SALOME,  when  he  is  pre 
vented  and  disarmed  by  KALIPHILUS. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Ha,  ha,  old  man !  too  late. 
Why  stand  ye  gazing,  priests  ?    Secure  your  vic 
tim. 

[SEXTUS  is  overpowered  and  bound. 

Now,  Alpindargo,  let  thy  men  lead  hence 
This  old  man  and  his  daughter.     Till  I  claim 
My  captive,  let  them  have  a  conduct  safe 
Unto  a  place  of  safety  and  a  guard. 
See  that  he  touch  her  not,  lest  in  his  frenzy 
He  rob  me  of  her  as  he  would  do  now. 
Give  him  his  arms.     Let  him  be    treated  well. 

ALPINDARGO. 

Ullin  and  Orla,  take  a  guard  of  men 
And  bring  this  man  and  maiden  to  my  cave, 
And  guard  them  safely  there  until  I  come. 
Enter  THEUDAS  hastily. 


ANTONIUS.  251 

THEUDAS. 

The  prisoner  is  escaped.     I  found  him  not. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Fool !   he  is  here.     Go  now  prepare  my  ship. 
Make  all  things  ready  ;    let  the  oarsmen  be 
Fast  at  their  posts ;   then  haste  to  let  me  know. 
Thou  'It  find  me  waiting  at  the  great  oak-tree. 

[Exit  THEUDAS. 
SEXTUS. 

Farewell,  Salome  — 


KALIPHILUS. 


Hurry  them  away. 

SALOME. 

Oh  stay.     Oh,  let  me  see  him  —  but  one  mo 
ment — 

[ANTONIUS  and  SALOME  are  led  out. 

ALPINDAEGO. 

Prepare  the  victim  ;   let  the  rite  proceed. 
Already  are  the  gods  impatient. 

CAEACTACUS. 

Stay! 
A  messenger ! 

Enter  a  MESSENGER. 

MESSENGER. 

The  Romans  are  upon  us! 


252  ANTONIUS. 

They  have  surprised  our  sentinels,  have  forced 
Our  ramparts,  slaughtered  all  our  men,  and  now 
Are  swiftly  marching  for  this  place. 

CAKACTACTJS. 

And  thou  — 
Wert  thou  one  of  the  garrison  ? 

MESSENGER. 

I  was. 
And  I  alone  escaped  to  tell  the  news. 

CARACTACC8. 

Thou  coward !     Go  and  join  thy  comrades. 

[Stabs  him. 

MESSENGER. 

Oh! 

[Dies. 

KALIPHILUS. 

I  '11  go  and  seek  my  treasure,  then  aboard ; 
Leave  here  Antonius  with  this  gentle  hoard  ; 
Teach  sweet  Salome  how  to  be  my  wife, 
To  wander,  and  be  cursed,  like  me,  with  life. 

[Exit  KALIPHILUS. 

CARACTACUS. 

Now,  warriors,  follow  me  ;  priests,  do  your  work. 
For,  ere  yon  star  shall  wink  its  sleepy  eye 


ANTONIUS.  253 

The  full  of  fifty  times,  we  '11  bring  you  back 
More  victims  than  your  altar-fires  can  burn. 
On,  warriors,  to  the  fight !   your  war-cry  be  — 
Briton  and  freedom  !    death  or  liberty  ! 

[Exit  CARACTACUS,  with  BARDS  and  WARRIORS. 


Under  a  large   Oak. 
KALIPHILUS. 

KALIPHILUS. 
THERE  moves  the  clanging,  crashing  march  of 

Death. 
Fools !      How  they    groan  and    shriek    beneath 

his  tread  I 

When  with  impatient  cry,  and  headlong  rush 
With  music's  cheer,  they  fling  them  in  his  track. 
Now  should  they  shout  with  very  joy  to  know 
That  they  can   die,  and   that  their  tarrying 's 

ended. 

BARDS,  from  the  distant  fight. 

Come,  shades  of  mighty  men, 

Ye  forms  of  heroes  from  dark  vale  and  glen, 

Where  ye  have  fallen.     Awful  ghosts 

Of  bards  in  cloud-like  hosts, 

Who  in  the  dreadful  mountain  chasms  sigh, 

Or,  moving  high, 

Around  their  craggy  summits  cling, 

Upraise  your  voices,  sing 

War's  tempest  song, 

Roll  it  with  shrieks  along, 


ANTONIUS.  255 

And  let  your  harps  primeval  forests  be,  — 
Your  gong,  the  sea. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Now  voice  of  harp  and  harper  is  borne  down 
In  the  deep  surging  fight,  with  curse  and  groan. 
Howl,    howl    ye    priests  ;    doubtless   your   gods 
will  hear. 

DRUIDS,  from  the  neighboring  grove. 

Uplift  thine  arms, 
Send  swift  alarms, 
God  of  the  mighty  sledge. 
Put  up  the  shield, 
Bow  and  quiver  wield, 

Sharpen  the  spear,  and  whet  the  axe's  edge, 
God  of  the  battle. 
Let  loose  the  hurricane, 
Tornadoes  wild  unchain, 
With  hail-storms  rattle, 
God  of  the  wind. 
Lead  on  the  torrent's  wrack, 
Flame  in  the  thunder's  track, 
Terror  unbind, 
God  of  the  fiery  breath. 
To  torture  and  to  death 
Our  fierce  invaders  send, 
That  they  no  more  may  draw  the  sword,  nor 
bend 


256  ANTONIUS. 

The  bow. 

Pour  on  them  torments  and  undying  woe, 

And  whip  them  through  the  world  of  ghosts 

with  rods 
Prepared  in  council  by  ye  all,  ye  gods. 

KALIPHILUS. 

To  tarry,  tariy,  tarry  till  He  come. 
To  walk,  to  walk,  to  walk  until  He  come.  — 
Nay,  Penitence,  thy  meek  face  taunteth  me, 
Thy  sweet  voice  calleth  jeering  echoes  up 
From  graves  in  valleys  of  mine  ears,  and  back 
From  the  long  mountain  ranges  in  my  brain. 
Ah  !    there  are    burdens    which   thou  canst  not 

lift 

From  the  oppressed  soul.     Away !  begone  ! 
I  hate  thee.     Ay,  to  tarry  till  He  come. 
To  walk,  to  walk,   to  walk !  O  God !   no  death. 
When  He  shall  come,  what  then  ?   Then  death  ? 

Then  rest? 

Insensibility  ?     Oblivion  ? 
Or  larger  life,  and  greater  punishment  ? 
Oh  words  inevitable  in  mine   ears 
Forever  sounding,  with  a  voice  that  shakes 
My  marrow,  curdles  all  my  blood,  and  lifts 
My  matted  hair  like  rays  above  a  cloud, 
Cease,  cease  awhile,  let  my  racked  conscience 

rest. 


ANTONIUS.  257 

Go  faster,  Jew  ;  go  faster.     O  great  guilt 
O'ertopping  the  huge  daring  of  the  Titans, 
Or  the  impious  mockery  of  Aaron's  sons, 
Or  Heaven-defying  pride  upon  the  plains 
Where  Babel's  tower,  falling,  bows  its  head, 
I  '11  glory  in  thee  ;  be  my  pride  my  crown, 
Than  which  the  arch  fiend  himself  can  find  no 

greater 
To  girt  his  mountain  brows,  as    black   clouds 

hang 

Around  the  front  of  Sinai,  or  the  top 
Of  heaven  daring  summits  breathing  fire. 
He  snatches  at  it  vainly  mad  with  envy. 
Oh,  were  I  tall  enough  to  reach  the  heavens, 
And  in  defiance  wear  it  'fore  the  throne !  — 

Enter  THEUDAS. 

Well,  knave,  what  news  ?  what  news !  Speak  — 
speak,  I  say. 


A  body  of  the  Romans  have  assailed 
The  sacred  grove.     Old  Alpindargo  's  slain. 
Bernice  and  Thona  fled  aboard  thy  ship, 
The  druids  captured,  Sextus  is  set  free, 
And  rages  like  a  tempest  long  pent  up, 
Which  breaks  at  length  its  bars  — 
17 


258  ANTONIUS. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Fool !   is  he  armed  ? 

THEUDAS. 

Ay,  armed  ;    and  when  I  saw  him  last  he  held 
A  trembling  druid  in  his  giant  grasp  ; 
With  awful  threats  he  bade  him  lead  the  way 
To  Alpindargo's  cave,  where,  as  thou  knowest, 
Salome  waits. 

KALIPHILUS. 

But  did  he  do  it  ? 

THEUDAS. 

The  druid? 

KALIPHILUS. 

Yea,  knave. 

THEUDAS. 

He  promised ;    and  if  terror  take  not 
All  his  poor  wits,  he  '11  do  it. 

KALIPHILUS. 

I  must  be  there 
Before  him.     But  the  ship  ? 

THEUDAS. 

All  things  are  ready  ; 
The  oarsmen  in  their  seats,  the  sails  attend. 

KALIPHILUS. 

Keep  all  in  readiness  till  I  come  there. 


Alpindargo's  Cave. 
ANTONIUS,  ULLIN,  OKLA,  AND  SALOME. 

ANTONIUS. 

THE  villains  have  withdrawn  to  rest  awhile. 
But  we  shall  win,  Salome,  we  shall  win. 
Oh,  this  is  joy,  in  such  a  storm  to  find, 
And  from  it  save,  my  child.     Thou  art  twice 
mine. 

SALOME. 

All    thine,    a   thousand    times   thine    own,   my 
father. 

ULLIN. 

Behold !     They  will  come  on  again. 

ANTONIUS. 

'Tis  well. 

The  father  rages  in  me  as  a  lion, 
And    hath    the    strength    of    twenty    thousand 

youths. 
Fear  not,  my  love ;  we  '11  make  them  harmless 

ghosts. 
Another  kiss,  my  child  —  here,  in  my  arms. 


260  ANTONIUS. 

SALOME. 

Ah,  thou  dost  bleed  !     Art  wounded  ? 


It  is  naught, 

My  gentle  one.     Thou  art  a  warrior, 
Thy  father's  child  —  a  shade  too  pale,  mayhap. 
Thy  silent  courage   is  a  hero's.     Love, 
Thou  yet  shalt  be  the  brightest  jewel  in 
The  brightest  crown  e'er  worn  by  regal  Rome  — 
The  crown  in  which  her  Roman  matrons  shine. 

SALOME. 

Ah !  here  they  come  again. 

ANTONIUS. 

Well,  let  them  come. 
I  am  refreshed.     Another  kiss,  my  girl. 
So,  stand  thou  now  a  little  back. 


Oh,  no. 

Let  me  be  near  thee. 


Nay,  my  child,  stand  back. 
Come  Valor,  Vengeance,  Hope,  Despair,  Hate, 

Love,  — 
Come  all  and  help  me. 


ANTONIUS.  261 

SALOME. 

Let  me  hold  thy  shield 
Before  thee. 

ANTONIUS. 

Nay,  brave  girl,  mine  own,  stand  back. 

ULLIN. 

Now,  comrade. 

ORLA. 

I  am  at  thy  side,  dear  Ullin. 

Enter  TOBSA,  ffte  three  PIBATES,  and  some  WARRIORS  assaulting. 
ANTONIUS,  fighting. 

Aha !  ye  caitiffs,  —  Now  that  I  would  live 
With  and  for  thee  Salome  —  down,  thou  slave  — 
Youth  flames  again  within  me. 

TORSA. 

Cowards  !  dolts  ! 

What !  shall  a  dotard  and  two  traitors  hold 
Ye  here  at  bay?     Think  of  the  victors'  spoils. 
She  's   there,    she 's  there  within,   the  captive 
maid. 

ULLIN. 

Gods !   but  the  curs  are  fierce !   Be  firm,  good 
Orla. 

ORLA. 

To  death,  for  them  and  thee,  if  need  be,  Ullin. 


262  ANTONITJS. 

ANTONIUS. 

See  how  they  fall,  Salome  !     Hope  upholds 
Its  banners.     Ah,  good  arm,  thou  'st  not  forgot 
Thy  cunning,  —  to  thy  den  in  Hades,  hound  ! 

TORSA. 

Have  at  them !     Tear  them  down. 

ULLIN. 

Strike  home,  dear  Orla. 

ANTONIUS. 

Death  and  the  Furies  seize  thee.    See  !  another, 
For  thee  and  me,  Salome.     See  them  fall ! 
To  Tartarus  and  blackest  torments  rush, 
Ye  howling  fiends !  Give  me  thy  thunders,  Jove  ! 

0  Mars,  Minerva !     O  Eumenides, 
Pursue  them. 

ORLA. 

Ullin,  shall  we  sally  forth 
And  drive  them  howling  — 

UULIN. 

Orla!  Art  thou  hurt? 

ORLA. 

1  'm  sped  —  this  arrow  —  mind  me  not  —  fare 

well. 

[Dies. 


ANTONIUS.  263 

ULLIN. 

A  score  shall  pay  me  for  thy  single  life, 
My  generous  friend,  too  venturous,  too  brave. 


Oh,  there  is  Sextus  !     I  can  hear  his  voice ! 
O  father,  there  is  Sextus  !     Seest  thou  not 
His  armor  gleaming  in  the  moonbeams  there  ? 
Oh,  he  is  saved !     O  father,  he  is  saved ! 

SEXTUS,  without. 

Infernal  blood-hounds,  to  your  kennels  !     Ho  ! 
Good  heart,  Antonius :  good  heart,  my  friend. 

SALOME. 

He  moves  a  whirlwind.     Roman  soldiers  now 
Come  on  to  join  him. 


ANTONIUS. 


Ha !  the  knaves  give  back. 


TOESA. 

Thou  liest.     Now  thou  art  mine. 


ANTONIUS. 

What !  cur,  so  bold  ? 

[They  Jight,  ANTONIUS  is  wounded. 


264  ANTONIUS. 

SALOME. 

O  father  — 

ANTONIUS. 

Peace,  my  child.     Now,  dog,  to  hell ! 

[Runs  him  through. 
SEXTUS,  without. 

Hold  fast,  Antonius :  we  are  with  you  straight. 

ANTONIUS. 

Ay,  Sextus.     Ay,  brave  Sextus. 

[Falls. 

SALOME. 

Thou  art  slain! 

Enter  KALIPIIILUS  through  a  sewet  passage. 
KALIPHILUS. 

Salome,  come. 

SALOME. 

With  thee  ?     Oh,  never ! 


Hold! 

SALOME. 

O  save  me,  Sextus!  Father,  Ullin,  help  ! 

ULLIN. 

Thou  shalt  not  touch  this  maiden.     Hold,  I  say. 
Wert  thou  the  god  of  hell  I  would   withstand 
thee. 


ANTONIUS.  265 

KALIPHILUS. 

Fool !  wilt  thou  die  ?  Then  be  it  as  thou  wilt. 

[Stabs  him. 

ULLIN. 

Farewell,  Salome.     I  would  still  have  lived 
For  thee  —  to  fight  —  I  die  —  alas  !  —  too  soon  — 

[Dies. 
ROMAN  SOLDIERS,  without. 

Ho  !  Victory  !     The  cowards  flee ! 

SEXTUS,  without. 

Pursue. 

SEXTUS  is  borne  in,  wounded. 
SEXTUS. 

Now  leave  me  here,  good  friends :  join  the  pur-  • 
suit. 

[KALIPHILUS  seizes  SALOME  in  his  armt. 
SALOME. 

O  Sextus,  save  me ! 

KALIPHILUS. 

He  's  too  late.     Ha,  ha  ! 

[Exit  KALIPHILUS,  bearing  SALOME. 


Ho !  stay  him  !     Seize  him  !     Kill  him  !    Where 
are  ye  ? 


266  ANTONIUS. 

All  in  that  cursed  pursuit.  O  gods !  O  demons  ! 
To  lie  here  crippled  by  that  villain's  club ! 
Antonius !  What,  art  thou  dead  ?     Ye  fiends  ! 
But  this  should  make  a  man  curse  all  the  gods, 
And  tempt  his  death  from  their  swift  indignation. 
Ho,  Soldiers  !    Romans  !     Help  !     Can  no   one 

hear  ? 

Oh,  but  I  will  pursue  him,  by  the  gods ! 
And  find  him,  though  he  hid  in  darkest  Hades. 


Salome. 

SEXTUS. 

Ah,  thou  livest !     'T  is  some  good 
In  all  this  cursed  ill. 

ANTONIUS. 

Come  here,  Salome. 

SEXTUS. 

'Tis  vain!     She  is  not  here,  Antonius. 

ANTONIUS. 

She  is  not  here !  not  here !     She  is  not  here  ? 
What  !  have  I  dreamed  ? 


Nay.     She  was  here,  but  is  not. 


ANTONIUS.  267 

ANTONIOS. 

Was  here,  but  is  not  ?   What  ?     How  meanest 
thou? 

SEXTOS. 

That  traitorous  fiend,  that  foul  Kaliphilus, 
Hath  borne  her  hence. 


Then  is  she  lost  for  aye ! 
Oh,  I  have  had  enough  of  life,  enough. 
Part,   part  my  soul,  and  as  a  giant  shade 
In  cloudy  semblance  move :  spit  storms  forever, 
O'erwhelm  the  substance  of  the  natural  world, 
And  shake  it  into  chaos.     Let  there  be, 
Through  all  the  breadth  and  depth  of  air-filled 

space, 

One  wrathful  howling  storm,  and  that  be  thou 
And  let  the  hollow  caves  of  Erebus, 
By  thy  loud  bellowings  shaken,  overthrow 
The  star-capped  pillars  of  the  firmament 
Till  all  rush  roaring  down  in  general  wreck. 


Nay,  I  will  find  her  yet. 

JLNTONIUS. 

Too  late !    Too  late  ! 

I   ne'er  shall   see  her  more  —  no  more  —  no 
more. 


268  ANTONIUS. 

SEXTUS. 

Art  thou  much  hurt? 

AHTONIUS. 

It  will  suffice  to  cure  me. 
Alas,  alas !    I  know  not  where  they  've  placed 

her. 

Ah  !  I  remember  now.     I  killed  her  —  so  — 
I  stabbed  her.     Yea,  well,  it  was  better  thus, 
I  could  not  let  her  be  his  slave,  you  know. 


Oh,  for  a  surgeon !     For  some  one  to  help  I 

ANTONIUS. 

My  Livia,  where  hast  thou  placed  the  child  ? 
Go,  fetch  her  to  the  garden ;  let  us  play. 


His  wits  unsettle.     Have  some  mercy,  gods. 

ANTONIUS. 

They  'd    say  that  I   am   mad,   but   that  were 

false, 

For  madness  is  but  weakness  :   I  am  strong. 
Look    at    my    falchion    there  ;     is  't    not    well 

hacked  ? 
Oh,  I  slew  twenty  of  them,  and  their  bones 


ANTONIUS.  269 

Like  dried  twigs  snapped.     For  all  that  I  have 

learned 
Naught  goes  so  to  the  heart  as  a  good  thrust. 

SEXTUS. 

Will   no   one   come?     And  must  he  die  here 
thus? 

ANTONIUS. 

What !  legs,  have  ye  turned  cowards,  and  refuse 
To  stand  by  me  ?     For  shame !  we  have  been 

friends  — 

Perchance  she  's  hiding  in  the  garden.     Come. 
She  is  so  playful  —  when  we  find  her  out 
You  '11  hear  her  laugh  —  such  music  —  it  grows 

dark. 

SEXTUS. 

Oh,  this  is  dreadful !  Ho !  What !  Romans  !  Ho  ! 

ANTONIUS. 

I   thought  I  heard  her  voice.     Nay,  art  thou 

sure 
She  did  not  call  me  ?    I  should  know  her  voice. 

ROMAN  SOLDIERS,  without. 

Ho !  call  again.     Where  art  thou  ? 

SEXTUS. 

Here,  within. 


270  ANTONIUS. 

Enter  some  ROMAN  SOLDIERS. 

SEXTUS. 

Run,  fetch  a  surgeon  ;  here  Antonius  lies 
At  point  of  death.     Be  quick.     How  goes  the 
fight? 

A    SOLDIER. 

The  isle  is  won,  my  lord.     Caractacus 
Is  now  our  prisoner. 

SEXTUS. 

What  is  that  chant? 

A    SOLDIER. 

The  hards  and  druids  marching  to  their  death. 
They  are  captives  all ;  and  presently  shall  burn 
Upon  the  altar  piles  they  built  for  us. 


Search  all  the  walks,  —  look  under  every  bush, 
The  fairy  rogue  is  teasing  her  fond  father  — 
Now,  boy,  gird  on  my  sword ;   my  breastplate 

now ; 

Nay,  not  so  close  ;   undo  it  still  a  little  — 
A  little  more  —  't  is  tight  here,  at  the  throat. 
My  helmet  —  buckler  —  spear  —  I  must  away. 
Give  me  my  cloak,  the  night  is  growing  cold. 
The  march  may  be  a  long  one  —  let  us  go. 

[Dies. 


ANTONIUS.  271 

DRUIDS  without,  chanting  as  they  pass  to  execution. 

For   death  's  a  tranquil  lake,  ne'er  tossed,  and 

never  troubled. 
The   just    are    gently    led    there,     the    unjust 

dragged   by  terrors. 
And  thence,  as  mists  arise,  when  summer  days 

are  dawning, 
The  souls  of  just  men  mount  and  move  aloft 

to  heaven  ; 
The  unjust  souls,  as  clouds,  when  wintry  night 

approaches, 
Are    driven    o'er    the    earth   in    storms,    dark, 

writhing,  roaring. 

White  are  the  misty  robes  of  the  just ; 
Bright,  in  sight  of  the  smiling  gods, 
As  clouds  which  the  smiling  sun  calls  up 
To  rest  in  his  glowing  presence. 
This  light  to  glory  turns  their  robes; 
Their  forms  are  those  of  gods, 
And  halls  of  many  colored  air  their  dwelling. 
But    the    unjust    take    the    forms    of  ravenous 

beasts, 

Flesh  devouring  birds,  or  of  reptiles  crawling. 
Never    come    they    to    the    gods'    bright   pres 
ence,  — 

Moving  always  in  the  shades  of  night, 
Caverns,  fens,  and  slimy  pits  their  home. 


272  ANTONITJS. 

Therefore   shall   the  just   man   not  fear  death, 

but  seek  it  gladly ; 
Therefore   will   the   unjust  fear   and   flee,    but 

vainly  seek  to  shun  it. 

[They  pass  from  hearing. 


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